


The Lost Treasure

by CelestialVoid



Series: Fortune Favours The Bold [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Uncharted, Alternate Universe - Uncharted: Drake's Fortune, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Bi Erica, Bi Stiles, Bisexual Erica Reyes, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I promise it gets better, I'm Sorry, If at any point you get mad at me, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Swearing, There's Probably A Lot Of Typos, Treasure Hunting, Uncharted AU, Uncharted: Drake's Fortune AU, Violence, Zombies, if you can call them that, just wait a couple of chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-01-16 16:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12346827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Off the coast of Panama, treasure hunter Stiles Stilinski and historical journalist Derek Hale uncover the coffin of the infamous Sir Francis Drake, only to find it is empty and the only thing inside is a journal that will lead them to the legendary El Dorado.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory." - Sir Francis Drake, 1587

The barnacle-crusted case has hoisted onto the ship, hitting the deck with a thundering boom. The old metal casket was covered in clusters of bulbous barnacles, small pipis, and coral that was entangled with strings of seaweed, old fishing nets and various other flotsam. A small red starfish clung to the top of the case, it’s frail limbs stretched out as if it were framing the crest that was carved into the metal of the casket; the crest of Sir Francis Drake.

The camera whirred quietly as it zoomed in and on the coffin and the man behind the camera—Derek—spoke up. “I’m here off the coast of Panema, where we’ve just uncovered what we believe to be the coffin of the legendary explorer, Sir Francis Drake, who was buried at sea over 400 years ago.”

A young man stepped into the shot, wearing a sleek black wetsuit that hugged his slender figure and accentuated the surprisingly firm curves of his body. It was half undone, hanging around his hips while a baggy grey shirt covered his chest.

He raked his hand through his tousled brown hair—some of the strands still clinging to his damp face—and smirked, his dark brown eyes catching the light and shimmering like gold as his cheeks dipped into small dimpled. He shook his head slightly and tightened his grip on the crowbar in his hands.

He swung the crowbar and slammed the end into the side of the casket, wedging it between the lip and the lid and shoving down on it with enough force to break the old seal slightly.

Derek lowered the camera for a moment and eyed Stiles with curiosity. “Are you sure you want to be defiling your ancestor’s remains like that?”

“You make it sound dirty,” Stiles replied with a soft chuckle. He rounded the coffin and sized up the casket before swinging his crowbar into the gap. He grunted as he pushed down on it, breaking the seal but not quite lifting the lid. “Anyway,” he said, panting as he pulled back the crowbar and straightened his back. “I thought you didn’t believe me.”

“I did my research,” Derek replied, lifting the camera again and filming Stiles and the casket. “According to the records, Sir Francis Drake didn’t have any children.”

“Well, history can be wrong,” Stiles offered, a hint of apology in his voice. He turned back to the coffin and wedged the crowbar back into the gap, pushing down on it with all his might until the seal gave way and the lid was pried open. Stiles straightened his back again and shoved at the lid with the heel of his thick leather boot. “Besides, I’m not defiling his remains; you can’t defile an empty coffin.”

He kicked at the lid again and knocked it clear of the casket.

Derek couldn’t help but gasp in surprise as he looked inside the casket.

Stiles was right: it was empty.

“What the hell?” Derek uttered, shocked. “How did you know…?”

All that was left in the coffin was a soft silk lining that had darkened with age and rotted away in spots and a small polished wood box that Stiles picked up. He flicked open the small brass latch and lifted the lid to find a small leather-bound journal inside. He took the leather journal from the box and flipped through the pages; the paper browned and stained with age but still dry, the notes and illustrations drawn upon them undamaged.

Stiles chuckled to himself as he flicked through the pages that had been thumbed smooth, muttering, “You son of a bitch, Drake.”

“What is it?” Derek asked. “Hold it up.”

“No, no, no,” Stiles said, holding his hand up and blocking the lens of the camera. “No way. The deal was for me to show you the coffin and that was it.”

“Wait a minute, if my show hadn’t have funded this expedition, you wouldn’t have—“

“You got your story, big guy,” Stiles replied. “You’ve just uncovered the coffin of Sir Francis Drake and you’ve even got the bonus of the mystery.”

“Mr Stilinski, you signed a contract,” Derek said through gritted teeth. “And part of that contract is that I have a right to see everything that you—“

Stiles’ eyes wandered over the man’s shoulder, looking out towards the sheets of rippling azure water. His eyes grew wide and he held up his hand, interrupting Derek’s spiel as he said, “Could you… Could you hold that thought?”

He turned and scurried over to a nearby crate, picking up the small walkie-talkie.

“Erica? Uh, we’ve got trouble. Hurry it up,” Stiles said, his eyes focused on something in the distance.

There was no reply; Stiles didn’t wait for one. He set down the walkie-talkie and picked up a solid metal case.

Derek hurried over to his side, setting down the camera on the crate.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked, unable to hide the hint of tense fear in his voice.

“Uh…” Stiles flashed Derek a charming smile as he said, “Pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“Yeah, the modern kind,” he answered, flicking open the locks on the metal case and tossing the lid back. He pulled two pistols out of the case, loading one and sliding it into the holster strapped to his chest. “And they don’t take prisoners.”

Derek spun around, looking out past the waves that lapped at the hull and towards the approaching silhouettes of boats. He stood there, stunned, for a moment, watching the foaming ripples that the ships left in their wake. He glanced over at Stiles, who had pulled the second gun out of the case and was loading a clip into the handgun.

“Shouldn’t we alert the authorities or something?” Derek asked.

“That’d be a great idea, except for the fact that we don’t have a permit to be here,” Stiles replied.

“What?” Derek growled.

“So, unless you want to end up in a Panamanian jail, we should probably handle this ourselves,” Stiles said, cocking the handgun. “And, trust me, you don’t want to be in a Panamanian jail.” Derailing the conversation, he held out the gun to Derek and asked, “Do you know how to use one of these?”

Derek took it from him, feeling the weight settle in his hand. “It’s like a camera, right? You just, point and shoot.”

“Pretty much,” Stiles said with a kind smile, picking up the other gun he had loaded. “Just stay away from the railings, take cover and watch your back.”

“How'd they find us out here?” Derek asked, crouching beneath the large crates that were stacked in the middle of the deck.

“These guys have been tailing me for weeks,” Stiles explained, his voice taking on a hint of irritation as he added, “I thought I lost them.”

“What did you do to piss them off this much?”

“It's kind of a long story,” Stiles answered. He flashed the man a smile as he said, “It doesn’t help that I have a naturally irritating personality.”

Derek opened his mouth to say something when he was interrupted by the rumbling engines of the ships that drawing closer like a predator closing in on its prey.

Stiles stood proudly in the centre of the deck, his eyes fixed on the approaching ships. The dark depths took on a dangerous glint as he cocked his gun and whispered, “Here we go.”

The first boat rammed into the side of their ship with enough force to rock it. A few of the lighter objects slid across the deck, but Stiles held his ground, raised his gun and fired.

The air filled with the sounds of rumbling thunder as metal sheets buckled and screeching as they ground against one another and pulled away from the hulls.

The engines revved and the pirates pulled away, circling around before pulling up alongside the ship.

Stiles raised his gun, took aim and fired. The bullets tore through the pirates, hot lead tearing through their hands and disarming them. He fired again, shooting them in their chest.

The boat pulled away as another one approached.

“Come on, Erica,” Stiles uttered under his breath. “Hurry it up.”

Stiles fired at the pirates but they dove over board before his bullets hit their mark.

“Stay low,” he shouted to Derek, his eyes scanning the railing.

One man hoisted himself onto the deck.

Stiles spun around and fired, the bullet lodging itself between the man’s eyes and knocking him back overboard. His body hit the water with a loud crack, the foaming waves pulling him beneath the tide.

A large arm caught him from behind, coiling around his throat and pulling him off balance. Stiles dropped the gun and pulled at the arm trying to get leverage. Tears trickled his eyes as he choked, his lungs filling with fire. He reached for his ankle, pulling the small fishing knife from the sheath and swinging it back into the man’s side.

He felt blood spill over his hand as he pulled his arm back, the man crying out in pain as he let Stiles go.

Stiles spun around, tightening his grip on the knife and readying himself for a fight when a gunshot split the air.

They both froze, staring at each other for a moment before the pirate’s body collapsed to the deck, blood spilling from the hole in his chest.

Stiles spun around to see Derek standing behind the crate, his gun raised and his eyes focused on the body. His hand was trembling slightly and he didn’t seem to be able to look away from the blood that pooled across the deck.

“Hey,” Stiles called, catching Derek’s attention. He smiled as he said, “Thanks.”

Derek nodded.

Another pirate vaulted over the railing, nimbly dropping onto the deck.

Stiles charged at him, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hurling him aside. He threw the man back against the metal scaffolding of the winch before dropping him to the deck, pinning him against the rough metal as he clenched his fist and slammed his knuckles against the man’s jaw.

There was a loud crack as bone broken beneath his fist and the man’s head hit the deck with enough force to knock him out.

“Stiles!”

He looked up at Derek.

A pirate had grabbed him from behind, pulling him back in a chokehold. Derek thrashed about, slamming his elbows into the man’s gut and wrestling against his grasp, but it wasn’t enough to break the man’s hold.

Stiles leapt to his feet and drew the gun from the holster strapped to his chest and fired. The bullet tore through the pirate’s shoulder.

Derek stumbled free, ducking out of the way as Stiles fired again. The man’s body jerked as the bullets hit his chest, spilling blood across the deck as his body fell back against the railing. His lifeless body hit the deck with a solid thump.

Stiles glanced over at Derek, opening his mouth to say something when a thundering boom split the air.

Stiles was thrown back, slamming into the ground with a solid thud. He laid still for a moment, staring up at the swirls of smoke-filled that clouded the blue sky. He felt the skin prickle his skin, a searing pain crawling over his body as he watched the dancing embers drift about above him.

Stiles winced as his ears filled with a painful ringing and an endless shriek. He blinked away the haze in his eyes as he looked among the smoking ruins of the wooden crates.

“Derek?” he called, his voice dry and scratching at his throat. He rolled onto his front and pushed himself upright. He looked across the deck and shouted, “Derek?!”

Stiles felt sick, his gut churning as his blood ran cold in his veins. He felt a wave of bile rise into his throat, burning him from the inside out as he scrambled to his feet. “Derek?!”

There was another thundering book. The bow of the ship erupted in flames as the small cabin was destroyed.

“They’ve got some kind of rocket launcher!” Derek shouted from somewhere among the smoking mess.

“Ah, crap,” Stiles hissed. He turned around and watched as the pirates’ ship turned about and circled around them. “That’s no good.”

“Stiles?” Derek called.

“Stay down,” Stiles shouted, grabbing his gun and bracing himself.

There was a loud rumble as a sea plane soared overhead.

“Alright, Erica,” Stiles cheered. He turned and shouted to Derek, “Cavalry’s here, let’s go!”

Derek stepped out from behind the cindering boxes.

There was a loud crack as the flamed enveloped the front of the boat.

Stiles looked over to where Erica pulled the plane up and landed on the surface of the water. His eyes darted from the plane to the raging fire. “The ship is going to blow. We’ve got to jump!”

Stiles grabbed the leather journal from where it lay on the deck. He wrapped it in a sheet of plastic and shoved it down the leg of his wetsuit. He ran to the far edge of the ship, grabbing the railing and looking back at Derek. “Come on!”

Derek grabbed his camera and ran to Stiles’ side. He vaulted the railing and dropped down into the water. Stiles watched as he hit the water and swam towards the seaplane before climbing up onto the railing. He dove into the water.

The water crashed around him, the waves drawing him under as he dove down into the water. He heard a muffled boom as the ship exploded, the water around him glowing orange as the shockwave radiating through the water as debris rained down around him.

Stiles swam towards the plane, surfacing beneath the wing and grabbing at the float.

He turned to look at Derek who was swimming over to the plane, trying to keep his camera above the water as he waded forward. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Derek muttered. “Nothing years of therapy won’t fix.”

Stiles chuckled, reaching out and holding onto Derek to keep him in place.

Above them, there was a quiet click as the latch was pulled back and the door was pulled open, the top panel pushed up until it clicked into place and the lower half swinging open to reveal a young woman. Her thick blonde hair pulled back in a braid as she looked down at Stiles with soft brown eyes and a kind smile. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

“I had everything under control,” Stiles argued, wading closer to the door. “Well, until they blew up the boat.”

“Sure, you did,” Erica chuckled as she pulled a small ladder from inside the plane and hooked it into place on the lip of the doorway. She reached out and took Derek’s camera from him, setting it aside inside the plane before turning back to him with a charming smile as she said, “Well, if it isn’t the devilishly charming and wonderfully talented Derek Hale.”

“Flattery won’t get you screen time,” Derek chuckled as he grabbed the rung of the ladder. “But that rescue will.”

She held out her hand and helped Derek into the plane, smiling sweetly as she said, “Thanks for the offer, but I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of gal.” She held out her hand. “I’m Erica Reyes.”

Derek shook her hand.

“Here.” She passed him a large backpack. “There’s a towel and a change of clothes in there.”

Derek nodded and shuffled towards the back of the plane.

“Erica.” She spun around to look at Stiles as he hoisted himself out of the water and into the plane; his grey shirt darkened and clinging to his slender body. “What do you say we get out of here before we attract any more unwanted attention?”

Erica nodded and crawled back into the cockpit while he unhooked the ladder and pulled the door shut, locking the latch into place.

The plane rocked slightly as it too off, the engine rumbling quietly as Stiles gained his balance and grabbed another backpack. He pulled the towel out and patted his face dry before running it through his tousled hair. He pulled the plastic bag out from his thigh and unwrapped it, checking that its contents were dry before setting it aside.

He pulled his shirt off and wrestled his legs out of his wetsuit, bundling his wet clothes up in a plastic bag and tossing them aside.

He patted himself dry and dressed quickly.

He dared to glance over at Derek. He froze, his eyes transfixed on the gorgeous man; he was wearing a pair of tight black jeans, the denim stretched tight across the curves of his body and his chest left bare. His dark hair was still damp, a few strands sticking to his face while his glittering aventurine eyes were focused on his camera, rewatching the footage.

Small beads of sweat and droplets of water lingered on his olive skin, running in small rivulets through the seams of his muscles and through the mess of hair that covered his chest.

Stiles couldn’t help but lick his lips as his gaze fell upon the man’s firm abs and the thin train of hair that teasingly disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. But what really caught his attention was the swirls of dark ink that formed a triskelion, nestled in between his shoulder blades.

Stiles dragged his eyes away, tossed his towel aside and crawled into the cockpit with Erica, sitting down in the plush seat beside Erica’s and looking out over the vast expanse of rippling blue water below them.

“Well?” Erica prompted.

Stiles smirked and held up the small leather journal.

Erica chuckled. “So you found the coffin? Wait… Is that what I think it is?”

“Francis Drake’s lost diary,” Stiles confirmed. “He faked his death, just like I said.”

“That means he was onto something big,” Erica said. After a moment, she lowered her voice and added, “Let's just keep that between us.”

Derek leant into the doorway that divided the cockpit of the small seaplane from the rest of it, holding out a gun to Stiles.

Stiles took it, checking it over before sliding it into the holster strapped to his chest.

“I think I’ve earned a look at that diary when we land,” Derek said as he sat back in the chair behind Erica’s.

Erica shot Stiles a dirty glare.

Stiles flashed her a smile and shrugged.

 

 

The breeze rolled across the beach, the wisps of wind curling into a ball as it rustled the leaves of the palm trees and stirred the pale sand that that was stretched across the beach. The soft waves lapped as the shore, caressing the pale sand before fleeing back into the ocean.

The seaplane had landed ashore, tied off to the thick posts of the old wooden pier. On the other side of the pier was a boat, anchored to the shore while Stiles and Erica stood inside the small wooden cabin.

Stiles watched as Derek paced back and forth on the pier, talking on the phone and growing more and more irritated the longer the conversation drew on. He turned his attention to the mess of maps, notes and leather-bound journals that were strewn across the table before them.

“When Drake sailed into the Pacific he took the Spanish fleet completely by surprise. He captured their ships, he took all their maps, their letters, their journals, and he recorded everything in this diary,” Stiles explained, holding up the journal they had found in the coffin. “But when he got back to England, Queen Elizabeth confiscated all of his charts and logbooks, including this one, and then swore his entire crew to silence. You see, Drake discovered something on that voyage—something so secret, and so valuable, they couldn't risk it getting out.”

“Alright, Stiles,” Erica interrupted. “Let’s just pretend for a minute that I don't really care about any of that stuff and cut to the chase.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smirk at her bluntness.

“A woman only interested in the climax,” he teased.

She smiled and winked at him.

He rolled his eyes and said, “Okay, I’ll jump to the good part, just for you.”

He flipped through the pages of the journal, opening it to the final page and holding it out before Erica.

Her jaw hit the floor as she muttered, “El Dorado.”

“You were right, he was onto something big,” Stiles said.

“Does it say anything else?” Erica asked, reaching for the journal.

Stiles snatched it away before she could grab it, holding it teasingly out of her reach as he lifted his eyebrows and said, “So now you’re interested, huh?”

“Yes, I’m interested,” Erica snapped.

“Well,” Stiles started slowly, closing the journal and dropping it back onto the table. “There’s nothing else. The last page has been torn out. But I’m telling you, Erica, this is it.”

“Only one problem,” Erica whispered, looking out the window at Derek.

“He can hold his own,” Stiles replied. “You should have seen him.”

“Alright, you go on out there and you tell him ‘We just found the lost city of gold’,” Erica dared him. “Maybe his producer can get it on the air tonight.”

“Oh, come on, Erica.”

“Stiles, do you trust me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “More or less.”

She shot him a dirty glare and opened her mouth to reply. She bit into her lip and composed herself. “We’re going to have every two-bit scumbag in the world racing us to this treasure unless we ditch him now.”

“You’re the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and it sucks,” Erica admitted. “But he’ll get over it.”

Outside, Derek paced back and forth on the rickety pier, his footsteps echoing beneath the withered wooden boards. He raked his hand through his hair as he said, “Yes, it blew up. It sank… No, that’s why we have insurance, right? … No, the camera’s fine; the footage is still there and there’s no water damage… Yes, I realise we’re pushing the budget, but do you realised that this could be the story of the year?”

He let out a heavy sigh, glancing over his shoulder at Erica and Stiles inside of the ship, discussing something.

“No, I don’t trust them. That’s why we need to move fast. Just get me the funds and a crew and I promise you—”

He was interrupted by the revving of an engine as he spun around and watched the boat pulled away from the pier. Pulled the phone away from his ear and shouted after them, but it was too late; they were already gone.

He rolled his eyes and hissed, “Son of a bitch.”

He let out a heavy sigh, standing still in defeat as he watched the boat drive away, the foaming waves of its wake crashing against the supporting beams of the pier.

“I should have seen that coming.”


	2. Chapter 2

The soles of his thick leather boots scuffed against dull grey slate and flat, round rocks that rose from the earth. His feet fell among the track of soft dirt and the blankets of lush green moss that coloured the boulders as he climbed over the rocks and trekked further into the small cavern. The rocky walls rose around him, the grey boulders worn away by time and left to look like the palm of a hand; riddled with crevices, grooved and cracks but smooth to touch. They were lined with thin rivulets of trickling water that flowed down into the pristine stream, and covered in clusters of blossoming wild flowers and patches of moss and lichen. Thick brown vines hung down from the high ridges, coiled like thick rope. The roots of trees broke through the cracks in the rocks, spindly outgrowths that reached for the stream below. The towering trees arched over the cavern, the broad palm leaves tousled by the wind and casting flickering shadows that offered cool relief to Stiles and Erica as they made their way along the track through the jungle.

Stiles glanced down at the GPS in his hand, looking around his surroundings before correcting his course and making his way towards the stream. He stepped into the rocky shallows, feeling the cool water seep through his jeans as he made his way upriver, through the narrow gap between two rocks before stepping back up onto dry land.

He checked the GPS again before making his way through the undergrowth of the jungle. His eyes rolled over the surrounding plants; ferns, mostly, with outspread, feathery fronds that brushed against his legs as he passed.

Stiles ducked under a large leathery leaf and stepped into an open space where the caver opened up into a gulley.

He paused, turning about in a circle and frowning in confusion.

“Stiles?” Erica called cautiously as she stepped up to his side.

“I don’t get it,” Stiles muttered. He looked down at the GPS and back up at his surroundings. “According to this, we’re right on top of the mark. The treasure should be right here.”

“Maybe you’re not reading it right,” Erica suggested.

“No,” Stiles said, turning the GPS so that she could see it. “This is the place.”

“There’s nothing here, Stiles,” Erica pointed out, a frustrated edge to her voice. “It’s just another dead end.”

“Easy, Erica,” Stiles said calmly, chuckling slightly in hopes of defusing the tension. “Maybe it’s not a dead end. Let’s just look around for a bit and see if we can find anything.”

Erica let out a heavy sigh and nodded. She took a step back and gestured ahead of them as she said, “Knock yourself out.”

Stiles took a step forward, slid the GPS into one of the pouches on his belt and looked around the open space.

There were walls of rock that had been worn smooth and stacks of boulders from where the rocky shelves had given away. Thick palms were clustered among the rock, the dark green, leathery leaves draped over rocks or swaying gently in the breeze.

He took a few steps forward, noticing that the towering walls of the ravine opened up to a small track.

“This way,” Stiles said, leading the way towards the rocky wall. He made his way through the narrow path and into the large open space beyond it. Around him stood tall pillars that were made of stacked rock and banners of slate that had been chipped away at to make tessellated patters that were darkened by shadows and lingering moss.

“This is more like it,” Erica said, a smile lighting up her face as she stepped over to one of the ruined pillars. She gently brushed her fingers across the carved rock, dipping into the grooves and crevices as she muttered, “What do you think this is? Incan?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah, it’s older than that. Like, two thousand years older.”

He began to walk through the ruins, his feet parting the long grass and the large and oily leaves of low-growing bushes. He looked around at the large pillars and followed the low ridges of stacked stone that would have once outlined the walls. He made his way to the outskirts of the ruins and clambered up onto a broken rock shelf. He hoisted himself up onto the ridge, stepped out onto the outstretched plateau and looked across at the pillar in front of him.

He ran forward and leapt to it, grabbing hold of the edge and lifting himself up. He rose to his feet and jumped to the next pillar, landing more gracefully than before.

“Find anything?” Erica called up to him.

“No,” he replied. “Nothing yet.”

Before him, one of the towering columns had toppled over, falling to a rest atop another and bridging the gap.

Stiles climbed up onto the moss-covered column and began to cross it.

There was a loud crack and Stiles froze. He looked down to see the thick fissure below his foot.

“Aw crap” he uttered. He kicked up his heels and ran, the column giving way beneath him. He leapt to the next pillar and froze, watching as bridge broke away into chinks of grey rock that rolled across the ground.

“Be careful up there,” Erica shouted.

Stiles flashed her a devilish smile before turning and jumping across to another platform.

“Hey, Stiles?” Erica called from down below. “There’s something strange about the wall here. There’s a piece out of place and it sounds hollow. It could be a door or something, we just need to smash through it somehow.”

Stiles looked at the large rock that she was talking about; thick vines crawled up either side, holding it in place. His eyes wondered to the large rock that rested on the ledge above it.

“I’ve got an idea,” he told her as he turned and jumped to another pillar. He braced himself and leapt to the rocky. He grunted as his body hit the rock, his hands gripping the small ledge tight. He shuffled along the wall, finding foot holes and places his hands could grip. He lifted himself onto the ridge and made his way over to the boulder.

“Stand back,” he shouted as he threw himself against the boulder.

A jolt of pain tore through his shoulder as his body slammed against the solid rock.

It shifted, the edge of the ledge breaking beneath the weight as the boulder fell. There was a loud crack as the large rock shattered the slate.

Stiles waited for the pieces of broken rock to settle before lowering himself over the edge of the small plateau and dropping back down to the ground.

Erica stepped over to his side, admiring the broken rock and the open doorway that had been concealed behind it. “Nice work.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. He made his way over to the doorway and stepped into the dark tunnel. He reached to the flashlight at his hip and turned it on, the dull glow lighting the descending staircase.

The path below their feet was made of tessellated stone, ribbons of green moss growing between the tiles. The walls around them were built out of large boulders, tunnelling around them as it trailed down into the darkness.

The staircase levelled out and opened into a large room. Around the stood carved pillars, many of them toppled over and left in ruin while others were covered in dust and grime.

Erica paused, biting into her lip as she looked around the room. “Okay, where’s all the gold?”

“This place was picked clean centuries ago,” Stiles answered.

“That no-good limey pirate,” Erica hissed under her breath.

“It wasn’t Drake,” Stiles said, his eyes falling upon the old tin helmet. He stepped across the room and picked it up off the dusty tiles. He held it out for Erica to take. “It looks like the Spanish beat him to it.”

“Damn it!” Erica howled, tossing the Spanish helmet aside.

Stiles jumped back as the helmet slammed into the floor at his feet and clattered across the tiles.

“Erica,” he shrieked. “What the hell?”

“Stiles, I’m not looking for a lousy piece of tin! I’m up to my eyeballs in debt.” She slumped down on one of the crumbled pillars. She hung her head in her hands, the curtain of cascading blonde curls falling forward and casting shadows across her face. Her voice was full of defeat as she muttered, “I was really hoping this job would pay off.”

Stiles took a step over to a nearby pillar, keeping his eyes on the crumbling remains as he light-heartedly teased, “Too many bar tabs in Lima?”

Erica chuckled weakly. She straightened her back and ran her hands through her hair, pulling it back from her face. “That, and a few too many bad deals.”

Stiles crouched before one of the pillars, brushing aside the smeared dirt and inspecting the carvings. “I told you to stay away from the bad guys,” Stiles teased. He glanced over his shoulder at her, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he added, “…And the bad girls.”

“Look who’s talking,” Erica growled, narrowing her glare on him.

Stiles frowned in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That reporter,” Erica said slowly, suggestively.

“Derek?”

“I saw the way you were eyeing him,” Erica said.

“What does it matter?” Stiles asked. “I don’t even know if I’m his type.”

“Stiles, he was wearing a Henley, a _grey and salmon-pink_ Henley,” Erica pointed out. “I’m pretty sure you’re his type.”

“That’s beside the point,” Stiles said, straightening his back and stepping over to Erica’s side. “I’m pretty sure I snuffed any chance with him the second we ditched him on that dock.”

“All is fair in love and war,” Erica said without a hint of guilt.

Stiles smirked and held his hand out to Erica, helping her to her feet. He paused for a moment. “And what if you can’t tell the difference?”

Erica gently patted his shoulder. “Then, my friend, you are in big trouble.”

Stiles’ shoulders dropped, his heart sinking into his stomach.

He drew in a deep breath and composed himself before following Erica. They wove their way through the ruins, skirting around fallen columns or vaulting over the rubble before stopping at the edge of the gorge: the floor giving way to the force of falling pillars that had dropped into the abysmal darkness of the deep ridge beneath them.

“That’s a long way down,” Erica pointed out.

“And no way back up,” Stiles added.

“We need to find a way across,” Erica said.

Stiles looked around. His eyes fell upon the rusting oil barrel that rested at the foot of a pillar across the

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, reaching for his gun. “Stand back.”

Erica shuffled back.

Stiles took aim and fired.

The canister erupted into fire, the explosion crumbling the pillar and knocking it down across the gorge; bridging the gap.

Erica chuckled. “That’ll work.”

Stiles led the way over to the fallen pillar, holstering his gun and climbing up onto the column. He took a second to find his balance before making his way across the bridged gap. When he reached the other side, he dropped down onto the tiled platform and held out his hand to Erica.

She took it and let him help her down from the pillar.

They made their way over to the large door. It was solid rock, the grey granite carved with runes and tessellating patterns. Beside it there was a thick chain, the metal links coloured by smears of green and orange rust. The chain was connected to a solid rock counterweight.

Stiles made his way over to the chain, grabbing the coiled metal and tugging at it. His muscles burnt under the strain as he pulled it up.

The chains slipped in his hand and the solid door slammed shut.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and grabbed the chain again. He pulled at it, tugging each link down until the gears ceased and he felt the flaking rust grate at his hands.

“Erica,” he said through gritted teeth. “See if there’s something on the other side that’ll hold it open.”

She ducked under the door and into the other room.

He heard her boots scuffing the tiles as she ran to get something.

A moment later, out the corner of his eye, he saw her push an old wooden cart loaded with slabs of slate into place beneath the door.

“This should hold it,” she called.

Stile let go of the chains, the coarse metal whipping about as the counterweight hit the ground with a thundering boom and the door slammed down on the old cart.

The cart began to groan, the old wood splintering and buckling under the pressure.

“Stiles!” Erica shouted.

He kicked up his heels and ran. He dove to the ground and rolled under the door just as it came down, a gust of air rolling over him.

Splinters of wood and broken slate fell still on the floor around them.

“Stiles,” Erica called, hurrying to his side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied as he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “That was a little close for comfort though.”

He stood up straight and looked around the room, his eyes focusing on the large metal pillar in the centre of the room. It was made of woven strips of metal bent into openings and patterns in the centre of the room, the metal aged and changing from black cast-iron to a deep burgundy colour. It had a narrow base that grew wider the higher it got like an inverted pyramid. At the top was a small funnel that rose to the ceiling.

“This looks familiar,” Stiles said, inspecting the large brazier. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the small leather journal. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. It was a faint sketch of the large brazier, lit up with glowing flames, and on the opposite page was neat scrawls of elegant script. “It’s a lamp, or brazier, or something. Have you got a light?”

Erica stepped forward, digging into the pocket of her jeans and pulling out a small silver-plated lighter. She flipped it open and struck the flint, a wavering flame bursting to life in her hand. She brought it to the small opening in the brazier.

There was a rush of air as the large lamp lit up, the blazing glow lighting the room. The flames funnelled up into the narrow pipe at the top of the brazier, trailing along the length of rope before lighting to two smaller lamps that hug further along in the room.

“And another dead end,” Erica said dryly, her eyes focused on the barricade of withered wooden planks and debris. “We’ve got to clear that out before we get anywhere.”

Stiles’ eyes rose to the far lantern that hung over the pile of wood. He drew his gun, aimed and fired.

The bullet shattered the chain and the flaming lantern fell into the wood.

“That was a touch anticlimactic,” Erica said.

“Give it a minute.”

The pile of wood when up in a roaring blaze, the flames consuming the dry, brittle wood and reducing it to a pile of cinders.

“Okay,” Erica said. “That was cool.”

They waited a minute for the fire to settle into glowing ashes before climbing over the rubble.

A brick gave way beneath Stiles’ foot. He stumbled back away from the ledge, holding his hand out to stop Erica as he watched the tile fall to the bottom of the pit.

“That was close,” he muttered.

He looked about the space; around him were curving walls that were lined with brick-like pegs that protruded from the walls all around the spiralling room.

“You’re going to climb on those, aren’t you?” Erica asked, nodding towards the pegs.

Stiles nodded. “Yep.”

“You’re going to break them, aren’t you?”

“Most likely,” Stiles confessed.

“Fine, I’ll stay here while you go rock climbing,” Erica said, taking a step back and giving Stiles the room he needed to brace himself and jump to the first yellow brick.

Stiles grabbed a hold of the brick, the rough grains tearing at the calloused skin of his hands. He turned his body and reached out for the next peg—diagonally upwards from where he was. He kicked off the wall and hurled himself towards the protruding brick. He caught a hold of it. The brick gave way. He fell, grabbing the brick below him.

“Stiles?” Erica called.

“I’m okay,” he shouted back.

He braced himself against the wall and leapt to the next brick and the next.

The bricks beneath his hands crumbled and broke away from the wall.

Stiles kept moving, jumping from one brick to the next and making his way around the room until he reached a thick vine. He grabbed onto the vine and abseiled down to the ground. He dropped into the ankle-deep water that pooled across the lit tessellated tiles and the mess of ruins.

Turning around, he saw a figure standing among the ruins. He reared back ready to fight, but froze. He let out a heavy sigh and, through gritted teeth, growled, “How the hell did you get down here?”

“I used the ladder,” Erica said, pointing over her shoulder to where the wooden rungs of a ladder had melded into the side of the wall.

“Oh,” Stiles muttered.

Erica chuckled and made her way through to the next room, Stiles following. They made their way into an open hallway, the grey walls lined with etchings of Aztec skulls and banners and borders of tessellated patterns. Thick columns were pushed up against the walls, their heavy square bases narrowing into slanted columns as the supporting pillars arced over them. Patches of wooden scaffolding were pushed up against some of the walls, behind the wooden boards, crumbled skeletons laid nest to the walls.

They followed the curving passage and made their way down a small flight of steps to where the hallway opened up into a large room.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered to himself, looking around the room. “Now what?”

Erica stepped over to the middle of the room, stepping down into a lowered brick circle. She turned about and looked at the four symbols that sat on plates embedded in the walls. “What do you make of these?”

“I’ve seen these before,” Stiles muttered, pulling the old leather journal out of his back pocket. He flipped the pages open to the illustrations of the four tiles, each numbered.

“One,” he said to himself as he stepped over to the far plate adorned with the carvings that matched the first illustration. He pushed the plate into the wall.

“Something’s happening!” Erica called over the sound of grinding rock.

Stiles turned around and saw a pillar rising out of the floor.

Erica quickly stepped out of the circle and towards the door.

“That’s a good sign, right?” Stiles said as he stepped around the circle and over to the second place, one with a carving that looked like a blockish man with wings holding a totem pole. He pushed the plate into the wall and another stone pillar rose from the floor. “That’s two.”

He made his way over to the next carved plate that bore the illustration of what looked like a twelve-legged spider. He pushed against the plate, but it didn’t budge.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath as he threw himself again the plate.

It fell back into place, the sound of grinding gears resonating through the hollow space as a third pillar rose from the floor.

“And lucky last,” he muttered as he crossed the room to the final pressure plate.

The carvings revealed the face of a man with hollow cheeks, pale eyes and jagged teeth.

Stiles pushed the plate back into the wall.

The fourth pillar rose from the floor, the wooden slats and smooth tiles in the circle pulling back to reveal a hole. Below them was a glistening pool of crystal-clear water. The walls of the cavern were surrounded by lush green vines and sheets of moss.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to swim in that,” Erica said, disgusted.

“I’ve been in worse,” Stiles said with a shrug. He held Drake’s journal out to her. “Hold onto this for me.”

She took the journal from him and slid it into her jacket pocket.

Stiles lowered himself down to the edge of the cavern and braced himself against the tiles. He pushed off and dropped down into the water.

There was a loud crash as the water engulfed Stiles, the foaming waves melding together and pulling him into the peaceful, serine depths.

He broke the surface and gasped for air, looking about. He swam towards a small opening and pulled himself out of the water.

He made his way down a narrow hallway that had formed between the large boulders and out into a vine-covered cavern where large boulders sheltered the small hollow. He grabbed one of the vines and tugged at it.

He tightened his grip on the leafy vine and began to climb, kicking off the wall as he hauled himself up. He grabbed a hold of the protruding bricks overhead and edged his way onto solid ground, dropping down onto the tiled floor.

“I made it!” he shouted.

“Can you get this door open?” Erica called from the other side of the solid stone door.

“Umm…” His eyes fell upon the barrels of gunpowder that were pushed up against the door, the wooden slats of the barrels weakening and spilling the fine black powder. “I have a plan to get it open, but you need to back up… All the way.”

He heard Erica curse under her breath as he too backed up from the door.

He drew his gun from the leather holster strapped to his chest and cocked it. He aimed it at the barrels, taking a second to steady himself before he fired.

The thundering boom echoed through the space as the shockwave slammed into his chest.

He squinted against the blinding light of the erupting flames, his ears ringing as he watched the stone door collapse.

They waited for the rubble that rolled across the floor to fall still and the plume of smoke to dissipate.

“Are you okay?” Stiles called across the space.

Erica nodded, climbing over the rubble and making her way over to his side.

Stiles held out his hand to stop her from walking past him. His eyes looked her up and down, checking for any injuries.

She shot him an irritated glare. “I’m fine.”

“Just making sure,” Stiles said.

Erica gently pushed his arm aside and made her way across the room to where the floor dropped away.

Stiles followed, looking over the chasm that was bridged by platforms made from withering wooden planks, held upright by rickety scaffolding.

“This looks safe,” Stiles muttered as he stepped onto one of the platforms. He heard the painful whine of the creaking floorboards which shifted underneath his feet.

He took another step, shuffling across the platforms that groaned in protest. One step after the other, he made his way across the platforms, his heart lurching into his throat with every sound: painful moans, weak creaking and the quiet crack of splintering wood.

He took another step, the platform wavering beneath his weight.

“Aw crap,” he muttered.

He didn’t look back; he didn’t need to. He heard the scaffolding give way, the platforms crumbling into the abyss.

“Stiles,” Erica called, her voice full of fear. “Run!”

Stiles kicked up his heels, stumbling slightly as he sprinted across the wooden platforms. He ran along the snaking path. He bounded over the gaps where the wooden boards had withered away and ran for the far side. He felt his footing slip as the crumbling platforms caught up with him.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he gasped.

Pain rushed through his legs, his muscles straining to move.

He leapt to the far side, falling to the floor and rolling across the smooth tiles.

“I made it!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet and looking across to where heavy stone slabs had fallen into place, bridging the gap.

Erica leapt from one stone slab to the next, making her way over to Stiles’ side.  “We must be getting close now.”

“After that, we better be,” Stiles said, dusting himself off.

He turned and walked along the length of the small hallway, stepping into the large room. He pulled his torch from his belt and turned it on, shining it about the space.

Across the length of the room was a recess in a wall, posed higher than the rest of the floor as if something had once sat upon an altar.

Erica stepped forward, turning on her flashlight and inspecting the engravings in the large stones that formed the walls.

Stiles stepped towards the platform, inspecting the recess in the wall as he said, “The temple must have been built around this.”

“Around what?” Erica asked. “There’s nothing here.”

“But there _was_ something here. A statue…” He crouched down to inspect the altar, brushing aside the dirt and dust until he found shimmering specks of rock. He held his light up to the shimmering rocks as he added, “A statue made of gold.”

“Look, these people…” Erica moved her torch across the walls, revealing the hundreds of human silhouettes that were etched into the stone. “These people worshipped it.”

“‘El Dorado’,” Stiles muttered. “‘The Golden Man’. It wasn’t a city of gold, it was this; The Golden Man. It was a golden idol.”

“Would have been worth millions,” Erica mused. “Maybe even more.”

Stiles looked down to his side, noticing the heavy drag marks that had worn away at the tiles. “I’ve got tracks. I be the Spanish dragged it out on cut logs.” He looked up at Erica apologetically as he added, “We're four hundred years too late.”

“Damn it,” Erica hissed.

“We could always follow the tracks,” Stiles said optimistically.

Erica let out a deep breath. “Why not?”

Stiles gave her a kind smile before turning and following the heavy ridges that trailed across the room and off to where a large hole had been blown out of the wall, opening the dark room up into the light of day.

“The Spaniards must have made themselves a short cut to get the idol out,” Erica said as she stepped over the rubble.

Beyond the shadows was a mess of fallen buildings: splintered wood, rubble and boulders that were piled where once-proud-standing guard towers, pillars, fences and houses had been.

The grass grew wild: lush and green as it covered the piles of dirt and ash. Vines, plants with leathery leaves and blooming flowers and shrubs full of fruit had grown over the toppled ruins.

“The tracks stop here,” Stiles announced.

“Great,” Erica said with acidic sarcasm. Her jaw was tense as she drew in a deep breath and asked, “Now what?”

“Do you hear that?” Stiles asked, listening to the sound that was carried across the breeze; the sound of gushing water.

They made their way through what had once been a large stone building, stepping out onto a craggy plateau that overlooked the gushing waterfall that steamed into a rippling pool of water, but their attention was drawn to something else; the large, rusting U-boat that had been edged into the rocks of the waterfall’s lower level.

“Now that is not something you see every day,” Stiles muttered.

“What the hell?” Erica gasped, her eyes focused on the rusting metal.

“It must have come up the river during flood season and gotten stuck,” Stiles offered. A devilishly mischievous smile lifted the corners of his lips as he said, “Let’s check it out.”

“Stiles, wait,” Erica called, grabbing his arm. “This isn’t right. Something about this feels kind of… hinky.”

Stiles raised his brow, chuckling slightly as he repeated, “Hinky?”

Erica shot him a glare.

He smiled and teased, “You act like you've never seen a German U-boat in the middle of the jungle before.”

“Stiles, I’m being serious,” she growled.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles said softly. “Why don’t you stay here and I’ll go check it out? Keep your radio on and I’ll call you if I run into any Nazis.”

Erica hesitated for a moment, then heeded. “Okay.”

Stiles offered her a kind smile before turning his attention back to the rusty ruins of the U-boat. He made his way over to the rocky wall, following the edge of the pooling water as he surveyed the wreckage.

The only entrance was on the top, and to get to it he had to climb around the craggy walls surrounding him and up to where the rocks and the rusting hull parted the gushing water.

He waded through the shallows and skirted around a large tree that grew onthe riverbed, its thick roots burrowing into the ground and barring the path along the dry land.

He stepped up onto the shore and charged at the rocky wall. He kicked off the grey rocks and grabbed onto a high ledge, lifting himself up and scaling the cavernous wall. He hoisted himself up onto a ledge and followed it around, ducking under the waterfall and shuffling along through the shadows behind the curtain of azure water and lacy white spray.

The path before him broke away. He lowered himself and clung to the edge, reaching out behind himself and leaping to the ledge behind him. He shuffled along the ridge until he heard a voice crackle over the radio.

“Stiles, you should be able to drop right down into the U-boat from there,” Erica said.

Stiles glanced down at the rusting metal plating of the ships’ hull that lay beneath him. He let go of the ledge and dropped, his thick leather boots hitting the metal with a loud boom that echoed through the empty caverns inside. He slowly made his way towards the hatch, bracing himself against the edges when Erica’s voice came over the radio again, “Hey, Stiles. When was your last tetanus shot?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. He reached back to his hip and pushed down the button to reply.

“That’s funny,” he drolled sarcastically.

He lowered himself into the ship, climbing down the ladder and dropping onto the metal grate that lines the floor.

He swallowed hard against the rising bile as the smell of blood and rotting flesh.

He reached for his walkie talkie, holding down the button as he said, “Something nasty happened in here. There’s blood everywhere… and soup.”

“What?”

Stiles stepped through one of the doorways and dropped down into a lower deck. He saw a body laying limp over the doorway. He held his hand over his mouth, his eyes burning from the rancid stench as he crept closer. He knelt down by the corpse’s side, picking up the gold coins that were scattered across the floor. He turned it over in his hand, admiring the mint mark that was stamped into the gleaming surface.

He reached for his walkie talkie. “Hey, Erica. I think the trail just got warm again. I just found a guy with pockets full of Spanish gold, only the coins are stamped with a mint mark I've never seen before.”

He rose to his feet and grabbed the doorframe, swinging himself into the next room. He walked past walls of machinery; large computers with broken lightbulbs, switches, levers and buttons. He climbed over the raised doorframe at the end of the room, making his way down the long hallway. He stepped through another doorway and into a partially submerged room. The water rose up to his shins as he trudged across the room to the ladder, climbing up into another room; a small office that would have been the Captain’s quarters.

He looked around the room, stepping over to a small withered curtain that hung in the corner of the room. He reached forward and pulled with back.

There was a flurry of movement as the Captain’s dead body fell forward.

He wheeled back, clamping his hand over his mouth and fighting the urge to throw up. He swallowed hard and reached for his walkie talkie, switching it on to constant reply. “Erica, you there?”

“Yeah, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied. “I’m in the Captain’s quarters and, get this, he’s still here.”

“Dead?” Erica asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He crouched slightly as he stepped forward and inspected the withered strips of flesh that clung to the man’s bones. “It looks like he was killed; torn to shreds.”

“What a way to go,” Erica mused, sounding sad. After a second, she added. “Check his wallet.”

“You’re all heart, Erica,” Stiles said sarcastically.

Stiles reached forward and pulled something out of the Captain’s hand; a folded piece of stained paper. He unfolded it, the creases worn and frail. It was a hand-drawn map of the island, signed ‘ _Drake_ ’.

Stiles’ brow furrowed as his eyes rolled over it. He stepped back and swept his arm across a nearby table, clearing it as he set the map down. His eyes moved from the map in his hand to the one that lay on the table; a clean printed map of the island with the grid reference’ UK2642’ in the top right corner.

“No way,” he whispered.

“Stiles?” Erica called over the radio. “Did you find anything?”

Stiles stepped over to the large map with grid references on it that was pinned to the wall. “UK2642…” he muttered to himself as he searched the map for it. His finger glided across the reference marks. “UK264—Gotcha!”

“Stiles?”

“Erica, you’re not going to believe this,” Stiles said excitedly.

“Try me,” Erica dared.

“I think I found the missing page,” he said. “It looked like Drake and our German pals here were after the same treasure, and now we’ve got the map that’ll lead us right to it.”

“Stiles, this better not be another wild-goose chase. We've got to get something out of this trip or—” Her voice cut out.

“Or what? Stiles asked. “Erica? You there?”

There was no reply.

“Erica?” Stiles snapped, unable to hide the panic in his voice.

Nothing.

Stiles glanced to his side, his eyes falling upon the slumped body of the Captain.

A chill dragged its way down his spine.

Stiles hurried back through the ship. He grabbed the rusted wheel that held a door shut, forcing it open. He heard it groan and shriek as the metal gave way and the wheel spun. The latch gave way and Stiles shoved the door open.

There was a loud thunk as a torpedo fell off the shelf and hit the ground. The small propeller began to spin.

Stiles swallowed hard, his gut lurching as he backed away slightly. “Aw crap, that’s probably bad.”

He grabbed the doorframe and swung into the room, climbing over the shelves as he tried not to disturb the torpedo. He dove into the launch tube and crawled down until he felt the cool touch of the water of the river. He drew in a deep breath and plunged into the water.

He swam to shore, grabbing the rocky ledge before the streaming rapids and puling himself out of the water.

A dark shadow passed over him and his looked up, running his hand down his face to clear away his blurred vision and the trickling rivulets of water that ran down his face.

An elderly man stood before him, his face hollow and his eyes dark. His thinning white hair was pulled back and he wore all black. He smiled, but it wasn’t comforting.

What was even less comforting was the man standing behind him with an AK47.

“Hello,” the man greeted, holding out an arm to help Stiles.

Stiles ignored it, pushing himself out of the water.

The man with the gun stepped forward, grabbing Stiles’ arm in a vice grip and hurling him onto dry land.

“Hey, hands off,” Stiles growled, breaking free do the man’s grasp.

The armed man reached forward and pulled Stiles’ handgun from the holster strapped to this chest.

Stiles glared at him, calling across the space to Erica, “Friends of yours?”

“I’m Gerard Argent,” the man with fading white hair introduced.

“Yeah, I know who you are, asshole,” Stiles seethed, shaking the water free from the fine hairs that dusted his arms.

“And I know who you are, Mr Stilinski,” Gerard scolded. “My son speaks highly of you.”

“Really? Because he only ever spoke lowly of you,” Stiles replied.

Gerard brushed the comment off. “This is just business.”

“Get over there,” the man with the AK snapped, shoving Stiles towards Erica.

Stiles stumbled forwards, fighting the urge to turn around and punch the guy.

“Put your hands up,” the guard instructed.

“Alright, alright,” Stiles muttered, raising his hands. “They’re up.”

“You see, your friend owes me money, Mr Stilinski,” Gerard mused. “A lot of money.”

Stiles glanced out the corner of his eye at Erica who looked very upset. She looked up to meet his gaze and he shot her a glare that said, ‘Are you kidding me?’.

“So, when she told me that you two were onto something big—‘the find of a lifetime,’ she said—well, I was intrigued,” Gerard continued. “But she's made grand promises before. Haven't you, Erica? And here we are again. On yet another fool's errand.”

Stiles leant towards Erica slightly and whispered, “Does he ever shut up?”

The guard stepped forward and slammed the butt of his AK into Stiles’ ribs.

Stiles fell to his knees, his arms wrapped around his chest as he coughed and groaned.

“Easy, Jones,” Gerard said calmly.

Stiles staggered back to his feet.

Gerard turned his cold gaze on Erica. “Time’s up. Unless, of course, you found something on that ship, Mr Stilinski. Something that might compensate for our troubles?”

Stiles tightened his jaw.

Erica let out a heavy sigh.

“He’s screwing with you, Stiles,” she said. “They heard everything. Just give them the map.”

Stiles unlatched the small leather pouch oh his belt, pulling out the aged map and holding it out to Gerard.

Gerard took it from him, unfolding the creased paper.

“What does a Kriegsmarine map have to do with El Dorado?” he asked.

“We don’t know for sure,” Erica answered. “But it looked like the Germans were after the same treasure as the Spanish. That map has something to do with it.”

Gerard eyed the map for a moment then gave a curt nod and pocketed it.

“So, are we square?” Erica asked.

“For now,” Gerard answered. “But I warn you, I’m not a man to be messed with. And just in case you need a reminder…” He drew his gun from his holster, cocked it and pointed it at Stiles.

“No,” Erica yelped, stepping forward. “Leave him out of this.”

“Do you guys usually just cut off a finger or something?” Stiles asked.

“Sometimes,” Gerard said with a small shrug. “But I think this will hurt her a little more.”

“Gerard, he has nothing to do with this,” Erica objected. “You can’t—”

Gerard turned the gun on her and fired.

A loud bang split the air and Erica’s body crumbled to the ground.

“No!” Stiles cried. “Erica!”

He charged forward.

A thundering boom echoed through the space as the metal hull of the ship buckled and explosion from the detonated torpedo plumed into a raging inferno.

There was a chain of explosions, the air igniting and the packages erupting like fireworks.

Stiles was hurled back. He struck something solid, letting out a weak grunt before collapsing to the ground.

Stiles blinked his eyes open, watching through a blur of colours as men scrambled about.

Something fluttered against his hand; a brown-stained paper.

He grabbed the map and lifted his head to look around.

“Erica,” Stiles rasped, his eyes drifting across the space to where he had last seen her.

He rose to his feet shakily, stumbling forward slightly. He winced as his ears filled with a painful shrieking ringing sound. He blinked away the haze in his eyes and saw Erica’s body, lying still and unmoving.

Stiles felt sick, his gut churning with guilt as his blood ran cold in his veins. He felt a wave of bile rise into his throat, burning him from the inside out as he stumbled backwards.

He saw the men—Gerard’s soldiers—rise to their feet and grab their guns.

Stiles pedalled backwards. He shoved the map in his pocket, turned and ran.

Somewhere among the screaming in his ears he heard Gerard bellow, “Stop him!”

He kicked up his heels and sprinted across the plateau. He leapt off the ridge and dropped down onto a lower ledge, hitting the ground and rolling back to his feet. He heard bullets fly past him, the sharp whistles ringing in his ears as he ran forward and ducked down a narrow path that broke through the rocky walls.

He wove his way through the ruins, vaulting over falling pillars and large boulders.

A man jumped out in front of him and raised his gun.

Stiles shoved the barrel aside and slammed his fist into the man’s jam, knocking him aside. Stiles grabbed the front of his vest and swung the man into the nearby pillar hard enough that the soldier’s head hit the rock with enough force to knock him out.

Stiles let go of the man’s body and watched him crumble to the floor.

“He’s over here!” he heard a man shout.

Stiles ran, sprinting through the vine-covered ruins and ducking behind a pillar.

He bent over double, bracing his hands against his knees as he tried to catch his breath, the world spinning around him. His head was pounding, his ears ringing and his eyes ached to focus on something unmoving.

Someone grabbed his arm and spun him around.

Stiles wheeled back, his fists raised and ready to fight.

“Easy,” a deep voice said warningly.

Stiles blinked the haze out of his eyes, his vision focusing on the man’s face.

He was a young man with dark hair that was cropped short at the base of his skull and a shadow of soft whiskers cast across his strong jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, narrowed on him as the colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused. His fist was raised, ready to fight Stiles off.

“Derek?” Stiles muttered, slowly lowering his fists. He let out a heavy sight and straightened his back.

Derek slammed his fist into Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles fell backwards, wheezing in pain as he cupped his cheek in his hand.

“That’s for leaving me on the dock,” Derek growled.

Stiles quickly recovered, rubbing his jaw as he rose to his feet. He kept his voice a low whisper as he asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I'm a good reporter,” Derek replied. “Good enough to follow a couple of no-good tomb robbers.”

Something caught Stiles’ attention.

He lunged forward and pushed Derek back against the moss-covered pillar, clamping his hand over Derek’s mouth and using his body as a shield.

“He went this way!” he heard a soldier shout as he and others ran by, their heavy boots thumping the ground.

Stiles waited until they were gone before lowering his hand.

“We’re down to one tomb robber now,” he whispered, taking a step back. “Erica’s dead.”

“What?” Derek gasped.

“Yeah, and we’re next if we don’t get out of here,” Stiles said. He paused for a moment and looked back at Derek. “Please tell me you have a gun.”

“Yeah, I do.” He reached into the small of his back and pulled the pistol from his belt. He held it out to Stiles.

Stiles took it and nodded slightly as he said, “Thanks. Now let’s get the hell out of here.” He took a step forward and glanced around the corner before stepping out onto the path. “Alright, come on.”

They made their way back into the old temple that had once housed the golden statue.

“What is this place?” Derek asked, his eyes wide with wonder as he looked at the carved walls.

“It’s a long story,” Stiles replied. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, we need to keep moving.”

They made their way down the hallway, back towards the large stone platforms that had broken the wooden pathway.

Ahead of them, a mercenary dressed in thick black armour turned around. He raised his gun and fired.

“Get down,” Stiles shouted, grabbing Derek and pulling him behind one of the large pillars.

Stiles cocked the handgun and stepped out, lining the man up in his sights and firing.

The bullet hit its mark and the man collapsed to the ground.

Another mercenary ran down the small fleet of stairs that led to the other room, firing at them.

Stiles returned fire.

“You always seem to be getting shot at,” Derek said as Stiles ducked behind the pillar and reloaded.

Stiles shot him a glare. “They’re shooting at you too, you know.”

He leapt out from the pillar again and fired.

The man dropped to the ground.

Stiles slid the handgun into his holster and leapt across the large stone slabs and over to the crumpled body of the first mercenary. He crouched and picked up the man’s gun, inspecting it before rifling through the man’s pockets for ammunition.

He rose to his feet and leapt across the bridging stones until he reached the second mercenary, picking up the man’s handgun and ammunition and passing it to Derek.

“Stay close,” Stiles instructed as they made their way back through the labyrinth of hallways and ruins. They made their way up the flight of stairs and into the open air.

“Wait,” Derek called. Derek turned and ran towards a small opening in the cavern walls. “Over here.”

Stiles frowned for a moment, unsure, but followed.

Derek led him over to a faded blue jeep that had been covered in large palm fronds, ferns and vine-covered branches to camouflage it.

Derek glanced over his shoulder, watching the dark hallway that led into the ruins. “Have you always been this popular?”

“I do seem to attract the scum of the earth,” Stiles admitted. He glanced up at Derek and quickly added, “No offence.”

“None taken,” Derek replied.

Stiles hoisted himself into the driver’s seat and reached for the keys.

“Do you have a good memory?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, why?”

Stiles met his gaze. “UK2642. You go that?”

“UK2642,” Derek recited back. “What is that?”

Stiles pulled the faded map from his pocket and handed it to Derek as he explained, “It's Kriegsmarine coordinates. I think I know where the Spanish took El Dorado.”

“El Dorado?” Derek gasped, stunned.

Stiles turned the key. The engine sputtered and stalled. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath before trying again. “The problem is, the bastards who killed Erica know too. If the Spanish found the treasure, they had to have moved it there, to that island. And Drake followed them.”

“So, what are we waiting for?” Derek asked.

“This isn’t a vacation, you know,” Stiles objected.

“I got that from the swarming mercenaries with guns,” Derek said dryly. “I need a story and I can help you get whatever it is you’re after.”

Stiles opened his mouth to object when Derek cut him off, “You owe me one for leaving me on the dock.”

Stiles exhaled heavily and sat back in his seat. “I suppose I do.”

He reached for the key again and turned it. The engine revved and rumbled, the gears kicking over and the car coming to life. Stiles pushed the gearstick into position and drove down the narrow dirt path.


	3. Chapter 3

The small seaplane flew through the wisps of cloud that drifted across the sky. Far below them, the rippling sheet of the azure sea lay undisturbed and rippling with a gentle breeze.

Derek held up his camera, filming out the front window as the silhouette of a small island broke through the clouds.

“We're on the trail of the lost treasure of El Dorado and it's brought us here, to a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean,” Derek narrated.

“Let’s just hope we’re the first ones here,” Stiles muttered.

Derek turned the camera around and held it out so that his face was in shot as he continued, “Will we discover the ruins of a forgotten colony and a fortune in Spanish gold, or does the island have darker secrets in store for us?”

He lowered the camera and smiled briefly in Stiles’ direction.

“That’s a little cliché, don’t you think?” Stiles asked.

“That’s what keeps viewers entertained,” Derek replied. “You need to keep them hooked or else they’ll change the channel during the ad break.”

There was a thundering boom and the plane shook

Stiles wrestled with the controls as he straightened the plane out.

“What was that?” Derek asked, lifting his camera and filming out the windows.

“Anti-aircraft fire,” Stiles answered through gritted teeth.

Derek turned to look out the window, looking through the camera lens as he noticed the flickering streams of orange and blue that consumed the engine outside his window. “Oh crap! We’re on fire!”

“We’ve got to bail,” Stiles said, struggling to keep his voice composed.

“Bail?” Derek repeated, shocked and unable to control his panic. “Does this thing even have parachutes?”

“Now would be a good time to find out,” Stiles said.

Derek set his camera down, rose to his feet and staggered into the back of the plane.

Another shell hit the plane.

Derek was knocked off balance, grabbing at the netting on the far wall as the door blew off the plane. He struggled back to his feet and shuffled down to the back of the plane.

Stiles’ knuckled were white as he strained to keep the plane upright.

Derek returned to the cockpit, passing a bright yellow bag to Stiles. “Do these things even work?”

“We’ll find out in a second,” Stiles replied, his dark eyes focused on something beyond the windows.

“Have you ever done this before?” Derek asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles lied. “You just jump, count to five and pull the cord. Now go.”

Derek grabbed his camera and crawled back towards the open door. The wind whipped his short black hair, his eyes tearing up as he looked back at Stiles. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll draw their fire so you can land safely,” Stiles shouted over his shoulder.

“I guess I’ll see you on the ground,” Derek said hopefully.

“I’m right behind you.”

Derek jumped.

Stiles waited, counting down the seconds as he tried to buy Derek some time. He grabbed the other parachute off the co-pilot’s seat where Derek had set it down and shrugged it onto one shoulder. He set the plane to autopilot and slid out of his seat.

He stumbled down the rickety plane, muttering to himself, “What the hell am I doing? It’s okay, it’s okay. You just jump, count to five and pull the cord. How hard could that be?”

He grabbed the door frame and stared down at the blur of green beneath the crashing plane.

“Oh crap,” he muttered to himself.

His grip tightened on the frame of the door as he shut his eyes for a second.

“Just jump, count to five, pull the chute,” he recited.

He let out a sigh and jumped.

The air rushed past him, pulling at his skin and tearing the air from his lungs as he tried to scream.

“One-two-three-four-five,” he counted frantically and pulled the cord.

The chute deployed and he slowed for a second.

His ears rang with a shrill whistle as something flew past him and he dropped faster.

He looked up, the white fabric of his parachute singed with burning embers that tore a hole through the billowing material.

He looked down again. The ground was rushing towards him.

He shielded his face with his arms and squeezed his eyes shut as he hit a sudden halt.

He waited; waited for the pain to flood his body, for the searing agony to ignite every nerve ending, for the cool embrace of unconsciousness or death, but nothing came.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, wincing as the glaring light of the sun broke the foliage and hit his eyes.

He lifted his hand to shield his eyes. He blinked and cleared the haze and burst of colour from his eyes, his vision clearing enough to see the silhouette before him.

He cried out and quickly clamped his hand over his mouth as he found himself staring at the large statue of an angel, her wings outspread and daggers held in her grasp. The chiselled curves of her elegant face, dress and limbs were covered in a soft sheet of tangled green moss, fallen vines draped over her raised arm like a shawl.

Stiles slowly steadied his breathing and looked up.

His parachute had caught the edge of the angel’s unfurled wing, the rough stone tearing through the fabric and leaving him suspended in air.

He unbuckled his harness and dropped to the ground instantly patting the grip of the handgun in its harness. He patted his back pocket, feeling for the crumpled map; nothing.

“Aw, shit,” he cursed. He looked up at the plume of smoke that rose from the canopy in the distance. “There are strangers trying to kill me, my partner’s dead, I leave my map on a burning plane, and Derek's missing—most likely dead. That's great,” he said to himself sarcastically. “Great start, Stiles.”

He let out a heavy sight and made a start forward. He trudged through the thicket, stepping over fallen logs and large boulders as he made his way across the small clearing and towards the smoke that rose through the trees.

He slid through a small opening in the surrounding rocky walls and found himself in an open hollow, looking over the shimmering shallows of water that pooled beneath a placid waterfall. Around him, large boulders lined the wall, jutting out at different heights and covered in sheets of soft, green moss. Spindly vines and twisted roots wove their way through the openings, lacing together boulders and draped over the edge of the higher plateau.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, inhaling the rich petrichor of the damp hearth as he followed the edge of the water around to the stacked boulders that jutted out from the wall of the hollow.

He grabbed the mossy edge of the first rock and pulled himself up onto the elevated ledge. He jumped for the next boulder. The toes of his boots scuffed against he rocks as he tried to find leverage and push himself up. The edge of the rock dug into his stomach, his arms aching as his feet finally found the small curve in the rock. He climbed up onto the rock and stepped up onto the next one. He climbed up the clutsered boulders until he reached a level, grassy plateau.

Before him, the large trees arced into a tunnel, their folliage cassting shadows across the fanning leaves of the ferns that lined the track worn through the bush.

Stiles made his way down the small track, stepping out into the open space where large platforms of dull grey slate were divided by a streaming river. Stiles crossed the space to where the stacked slate and ruins of carved stone led up to a large pillar that bridged the two sides of the surrounding walls. He climbed up the slate steps and toppled ruins and crossed the mossy pillar to a vine covered wall.

He grabbed the vine and gave it a small tug to test it before he climbed up. He rolled up onto the ridge and froze, the sound of rustling trees ahead making his heart race.

He reached for his gun, drawing it from the holster and cocking it.

“I saw the chute,” a man’s voice echoed through the shadows. “It was over this way.”

Stiles looked aorund for cover, but there was none; nowhere to hide. He rose to his feet and lifted the gun before him, readying himself for a fight.

The two men emerged from the shadows.

“There he is!” one of them shouted, drawing his gun.

Stiles fired, the bullet tearign through the man’s shoulder as his hand spasmed and dropped the gun.

The mercinary dropped to the ground, crying out in pain.

Stiles fired again, into the man’s chest; a quick death.

He turned his attention to the other man who was charging at him. He swung his arms aorudn to fire, but he was too late.

The man knocked his arms aside and slammed his hands around Stiles throat.

Stiles dropped his gun and dug his heels into the ground, trying not to fall over the ledge he had just climbed. He balled his fists and slammed his arms into the man’s exposed wrists, breaking his hold.

The man stumbled back, stunned.

Stiles charged forward, swing his arm and punching the man in the jaw. His knuckles hit the bone with a loud crack as the mercinary’s head jerked to the side.

The man staggered backwards, his arms falling limp by his sides as he collapsed to the ground.

Stiles looked aorund, wondering if anyone else was coming. He listened to the shadows but only heard the soft whisper of the wind.

He drew in a deep breath and stepped over to where he had dropped his gun. He holstered it and stepped over to the knocked out mercinary’s side, quickly pattign down his pockets and retrieving any amunition that could be of use.

He pulled out a small packet of twenty calibre bullets from one of the pockets on the man’s belt, sliding it into the small leather pouch that sat oppisite the holster. He nodded curtly at the unconcious man and said, “Thanks for that.”

Stiles rose to his feet and crossed the open space, following the worn down trail through the bush.

The trees gave way to a large open space where a square of knee-high stone slabs encircled what was once a fountain.

A thundering bang split the air and Stiles flinched. Searing pain bled into his arm as he felt heat seep into his sleeve.

He dove behind the knee-high stone, ducking his head beneath the shelter as he drew his gun and looked down at the red stain that soaked into his shirt.

“Shit,” Stilse hissed.

“Stop hiding, Stilinski!” the mercinary howled.

Stiles bit into his lip as he drew his gun and pushed his back against the carved stone

“You’ve got a shotgun?” he shouted back. “That’s so unfair!”

He heard the man laugh. “What’s wrong, Stilinski? Are you scared?”

“Nope,” Stiles answered.

In one swift emotion, Stiles leapt to his feet, aimed and fired.

The bullet hit the man in the head.

Blood sprayed across the leathery leaves of the nearby plants as the man’s body hit the ground, limp and lifeless.

“Because a shotgun ain’t shit if you’ve got a bullet in your head,” Stiles finished.

He holstered his gun and stepped over to the man’s side. He picked up the shotgun and pulled the belt of shells from the man’s body, looking it over with a smirk. He wound the belt of ammunition around his hips and fastened it, sliding the shotgun into the small loop on the back of his harness.

He glanced down at his arm to where the spray of the shotgun blast has grazed his bicep. It was a shallow flesh wound, barely more than a scratch.

Stiles turned and looked about the space, his eyes falling upon the heavy iron gate at the top of a flight of stairs. He jogged up the stairs and stopped before the gate.

It was locked; the latch slid shut and jammed in place with rust and age.

Stiles reared back and slammed the heel of his boot into the latch. The gates broke free of the rocks they were fastened to, letting out a painful whine as the fell to the ground with a loud crash.

He took a step forward and was hurled off his feet as a man charged at him. He slammed his fists on the man’s shoulder blades and broke his hold, grabbing the back of his vest and shoving him aside.

The mercenary reared back. He swung his arm and slammed his fist into Stiles’ face.

Stiles staggered backwards. He quickly regained his footing, the bitter metallic taste of blood seeping into his mouth, a stream of scarlet trickling from his notes and the split flesh of his lips.

He lunged forward, grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and hurled him against the nearby pillar.

The man’s back hit the stone with a painful crack, making the mercenary cry out in pain.

Stiles swung him around and pinned him to the ground, balling his fist and slamming it into the man’s jaw. His rigid knuckles collided with the bone and he felt the man’s jaw break beneath his fist.

The man’s body fell limp on the ground.

Stiles stumbled back and rose to his feet. He turned his head and spat the mouthful of blood into the grass. He lifted his arm and used his sleeve to wipe away the blood that trickled from his throbbing nose, wincing at his own touch and hissing, “Son of a bitch. That hurts.”

Stiles straightened his back and crossed the open space, following the sound of gushing water. He made his way over to a large waterfall. The streaming water coursed like a falling veil of lace—wavering between shades of pale blue and foaming pearly white—parted only by the ruins of large pillars that had once held up a bridge.

The pillars were covered in lush green clumps of moss, grass, and climbing vines of jasmine and ivy.

Stiles stepped over to the edge of the paved path, the toes of his boots resting against the jagged edge as he eyed up his target.

He braced himself and leapt to the first pillar, his gut slamming into the solid rock. He grabbed at the uneven tiles, finding a grip and pulling himself up onto the level plateau.

The next pillar wasn't as far away. Stiles jumped to it with ease, steadying his uneven footing as the sound of crumbling rock reached his ear. The pillar began to shudder and waver beneath his feet.

"Oh crap," Stiles uttered.

He sprinted forward and leapt to the next pillar, his platform breaking behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder and watched as the mossy rocks crumbled and fell into the rushing stream beneath him. The water erupted around them before dragging them beneath the foaming surface.

Stiles dragged himself upright and steadied his footing.

The pillar wavered, slowly tilting forward as slivers of slate fell into the water below

He sprinted forward and jumped.

His hands grabbed at the ledge of the far side of the ravine; his fingers aching as he tightened his grip and pulled himself up onto the solid ground.

He made his way down the paved that led through the lush green forest. Stiles brushed aside the large leathery leaf that hung from a bowing palm tree, stepping past it.

A small piece of metal attached to wiring and cords fell in front of him. He looked up at the large chunk of metal that hung in the tree, the red and white paint scratched away from the steel plating. The large metal tale was stuck in the twisted branches of the tree, the body of the plane broken off.

Stiles followed the trajectory of the plane, looking over to where the other half of the seaplane was wedged in a tree across a small opening; nestled in the bowing branches like a bird's nest.

Stiles crouched low, watching as men in heavy black armour hooked a thick rope on one of the branches and used it to climb up into the broken plane; searching the wreckage for any survivors.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and braced himself. He vaulted the fallen log and crept over to the nearest guard.

He lunged forward, clamped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him back.

The man flailed about slightly as his body fell back over an ammunition crate.

Stiles balled his fist and slammed it into the man's face.

His body fell still.

Stiles dragged him over the crate and laid him in the concealing shadows. He picked up the man's gun, admiring the rifle. He grabbed the ammunition off the man's body and loaded it. He used the ammunition crate as a balance and looked down the scope, lining up the first of his targets.

He fired.

The bullet tore through the man's chest, a weak rasp escaping his lips before he fell to the ground.

Stiles turned the barrel slightly, the cross hairs of his rifle lining up the second man's head before he pulled back on the trigger.

Stiles reloaded the rifle, his hands moving by muscle memory as he watched the third mercenary began to climb out of the wrecked seaplane.

He abseiled down the rope and ran for one of the nearby guns that rested atop the ammunition crates.

Stiles lined up the cross hairs and fired.

The man’s body dropped to the ground.

Stiles straightened his back and checked the surrounding trees before crossing the space. He skirted around the low-lying rubble of what resembled a structure and made his way over to the plane.

He grabbed the rope, the rough stands scratching the palms of his hands as he tightened his grip. He pulled himself up, groaning slightly as he shuffled up the rope. He reached the plane, pulling himself into the broken opening. He shuffled forward, staggering slightly as he tried to steady his footing on the unbalanced wreck. He crept forward into the cockpit.

The plane rocked, the metal groaning against the tree trunk as it wavered.

"Whoa..." Stiles breathes, his hands outstretched as his mind began to run wild with panicked thoughts.

The plane stilled and Stiles let out a shaky breath.

He shuffled forward and reached for the old piece of faded brown paper that sat atop the controls. He picked it up and unfolded the weathered paper, his eyes rolling over the familiar sketch of the map.

He smiled to himself, letting out a small sigh of relief as he pocketed the map.

He turned and made his way back down the length of the plane.

The plane tilted and rocked.

"Shit," Stiles gasped, struggling to keep himself upright as the buckled metal moved beneath him.

He stumbled forward, falling against the twisted frame of the small window; the glass misted with smoke and dirt and covered in radiating fissures.

He braced his hands against the metal and waited for the plane to still.

The groaning metal fell quiet as the plane fell still among the nestling branches.

He lifted his dark eyes and looked out the window, his gaze falling upon the obnoxious yellow fabric of a parachute, hanging limply from the ruins of a parapet just beyond the tree line.

"Derek." The name fell past Stiles' lips before he could stop it, his gut twisting with a strange sense of fear. "Oh God."

Stiles scurried back down the plane, grabbing the rope and leaping out of the wreck. His body swung back and forth, the breeze tousling his hair as he loosened his grip and slid down the rope. He dropped to the ground, his knees aching from the impact as he stumbled and ran forward.

He ran down the path that led towards the impressive stone fortress where he had seen Derek's parachute.

He heard a man shout, heavy footsteps thumping the ground as the mercenary ran towards him.

Stiles reached over his shoulder and pulled the short-barrelled shotgun free of the leather loop. He pulled the shells out of his belt and loaded them into the gun before cocking it.

He drew in a deep breath and steadied himself.

The mercenary stepped forward, his leather boot hitting a small wire that was stretched across the path. He cursed and stumbled.

Stiles opened his mouth to shout, to warn the man, but his words caught in his throat as the tripwire triggered the trap; a huge pallet of wooden spikes swinging around and impaling the man.

His body bent backwards, his eyes flying open wide as his words died away to a gargled mess. His lips quivered as blood spilled down his chin, his eyes focused on the blood-smeared spikes that jutted out of his chest. He looked up at Stiles, his eyes full of fear as he stared at the young man.

Stiles stared back in horror, watching as the man's eyes faded and his body slumped forward; only held up by the impaling spikes.

Stiles swallowed hard against the burning sensation of bile that rose in his throat as a cold sweat rolled over his body. He dragged his gaze away from the man's body, looking up at the vibrant yellow parachute that hung from the rocky turret.

Derek.

"Hang on, Derek," Stiles whispered to himself, sliding the shotgun back into the loop on the back of his harness. "I'm coming."

The muscles of his legs ached as he forced himself to continue down the path, carefully stepping over the tripwire before trudging down the path.

A shudder ran down his spine as he kicked up his heels and ran down the path towards the looming walls of the fortress.

His heart leapt into his throat when he heard the churning waves that crashed against the rocky bluffs below him. He could smell the rich salt of the sea as the foaming water scaled the cliffside like hands reaching up to drag him into the shallows.

"Eyes ahead.  Don't look down," he told himself as he stretched a trembling arm out and grabbed the next brick. "Keep going. Just don't look down."

His fingers began to ache as the rough grains of the bricks scratched his pale skin raw and his muscles tensed as he pulled himself across to a nearby window.

The window was barred shut by a lattice of twisted vines and branches.

Stiles grabbed the vine that was hanging over the window, tugging at it to test that it would support his weight before letting go of the brick and swinging onto the vine. He braced his feet against the brickwork above the window and began go bounce slightly. He kicked off the wall, letting the vine slide through his hands slightly as he dropped and swung into the window.

His feet broke through dried vines and he toppled into the room. He hit the solid ground with a painful thud, rolling until he fell still.

He exhaled heavily and tried to sit upright, letting out a weak groan as a a searing wave of pain soared through his shoulder where the shotgun sat and down to the bleeding gash on his forearm. He cursed under his breath as he pushed himself up onto his feet.

He looked around the small room he stood in; the old walls dripping with thin rivulets of running water and smears of mildew. The salt from the sea spray had gathered in crevices, forming what looked like a sheet of crystals across the window sill and exposed bricks. The far wall of the room opened up into the courtyard.

Stiles squinted against the glaring light and stepped out into the open space, his eyes falling upon the obnoxiously bright yellow parachute.

He kicked up his heels and ran over to the turret it was stuck on. He rounded the edge, his heart sinking into his gut as he looked at the empty harness that hung slack on the ropes.

He turned about, searching the shadows and crevices; his heart sinking more and more by the second.

"No sign of him," he muttered to himself. "That's either very good or very bad."

Stiles climbed up the slope formed by the rubble of the collapsed turret, leaning between the parapets and looking down across the open space of the fortress. Above him, a thick wire lead from the turret to a small room nearby.

Stiles unbuckled his belt, the smooth leather hissing as it slid out of the loops of his jeans. He swung it over the thick cord and leapt over the parapet, ziplining down into the room. He aimed his feet for the window and let go of the belt with one hand, the momentum throwing him into the room. His feet hit the ground and he stumbled into the table, the wooden benchtop jamming into his gut. The table rocked, rattling the old radio that sat atop it.

He cursed under his breath as he straightened his back and wrapped his belt around his slender hips again.

Something across the courtyard caught his attention; a figure moving past a window.

He leant forward, bracing himself against the table as he focused his eyes on the man in the window.

He had a familiar face; stern but handsome. His dark hair was tousled by the soft breeze that rolled through the ruins, his bright aventurine eyes were intently focused across the space—the glimmering depths catching the light and shifting between a rich hazel and a pale jade.

"Derek." Stiles breathed a sigh of relief.

Stiles watched as Derek held up his video camera, looking through the viewfinder as he panned across the grey brick walls surrounding the courtyard, overrun by streaming vines and blankets of lichen and moss.

Stiles felt his jaw tense as a wave of frustration and confusion washed over him.

"What the hell is he doing?" Stiles muttered to himself.

Derek lowered the camera and turned around, disappearing into the shadows of the room.

"Where is he going?"

Stiles lowered his eyes, looking down at the large cast iron gate that barred the lower path. Behind the bars, Stiles saw a figure move about in the shadows. A guard.

He watched as the guard pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt, pushed down the button and spoke into it.

The man's voice crackled as it came through the radio in front of Stiles.

Stiles grabbed the microphone and flicked through the channels, taking note of which channels were free and which were used; dropping in on fragments of conversation before returning to the broadcasting channel of the guard by the gate.

He quickly searched through his mind for the right words before pushing down the button on the receiver.

"Buka pintu," he said sharply.

He saw the guard straighten his back, turning to look through the bars of the cast iron gate and out into the courtyard as he lifted his walkie-talkie. "Siapa ini? Bicara sekarang!"

"Ah crap," Stiles hissed through gritted teeth. The last thing he needed was them getting suspicious and blowing his only chance at catching them by surprise. He couldn't break character. He pushed down on the receiver and shouted, "Sialan lo! Cepatan, buka pintu!"

The guard looked up at the small tower and froze, his eyes focused on Stiles.

"Ah, tai!" the guard shouted before wheeling around and disappearing. The gate rumbled and groaned as it slowly began to rise.

Stiles let out a small sigh of relief, a soft chuckle falling past his lips. "It worked."

But any relief he felt was short-lived as armed guards ran out into the court yard, shouting, "There he is! Up there."

"Oh crap," Stiles uttered, reaching for his shotgun.

He loaded the gun and dove for cover by the solid wall. A barrage of bullets tore through the window, riddling the far wall with holes.

Stiles leant out through the open doorway and fired, the spray of pellets tearing through the mercenary’s body.

Stiles straightened his back, hiding behind cover as he reloaded the shotgun.

Bullets tore through the dry mortar of the brick wall, narrowly missing his head.

He cursed under his breath before leaning out and firing again, taking down a second man.

Stiles reached for the ammunition belt, his fingers searching for the familiar smooth casings of the shotgun shells.

Nothing.

He looked down. The belt was empty.

He screwed up his face in frustration, biting into his lip as he cursed under his breath. He unbuckled his belt and tossed it and the shotgun aside. He reached into his holster and drew his pistol.

He looked out into the courtyard.

The third man was hiding behind a large wooden crate, reloading his rifle.

Stiles couldn't get a shot.

He drew in a deep breath and stepped into the doorway, watching as the man rose from behind his cover. Stiles' face was emotionless, his expression cold and composed as he lined up the shot and fired.

The mercenary's body jerked back and fell against the cobblestone path.

Stiles lowered his gun and stepped forward into the courtyard.

He made his way over to where the man's crippled body laid, picking up a clip of bullets and loading them into his pistol.

A loud metallic rumble rolled through the space, making Stiles' heart leap into his throat. He vaulted over the wooden crate and crouched below it as bullets flew past him.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed. He reached up and grabbed one of the grenades that rested on top of the crate. He pulled the pin and looked up, trying to judge the arc as he threw it into the air.

He hear the metallic clink of the lever falling away as it soared through the air. He crouched lower and held his hands over his ears.

A thundering boom split the air as the world around him was lit up by the rolling blaze of fire.

The gunfire was silenced, the sound replaced by the crackling fire.

Stiles rose to his feet and turned to look around the space.

The large cast iron gate still hung open.

Stiles made his way into the dark shadows, feeling the cool embrace of the shadow as he made his way into the tunnel. The arching walls loomed over him as his boots scuffed against the uneven cobblestone floor. He felt his chest thumping against his ribs as his wide eyes darted about the space, he kept his pistol tight in his grip as he descended a small fleet of stairs and stepped into shin-deep water. The crystal-clear water sloshed about his legs as he waded his way across the room and over to the far wall. Me trudged up a small flight of stairs and came out into another open area.

He squinted against the sun, the light streaking his vision and blinding him with flashes of colour. He blinked, holding up his hand to block the sunlight as his eyes focused on the large tower that loomed before him.

"Wait a minute," he muttered to himself, digging into his pocket and pulling out the map. He carefully unfolded the faded paper, his eyes focusing on the small illustration in the bottom corner; a sketch of the tower.

Stiles frowned in confusion.

"What's so important about that tower?" he mused.

There was a loud bang, the sound shaking Stiles as the bullet tore through the paper.

"Son of a bitch," Stiles gasped, throwing himself backwards into the tunnel and hiding beside the door. He leant around the brick archway and fired, shooting the mercenary in the chest three times before the man finally dropped his weapon and collapsed to the ground.

Stiles winced as searing pain tore at the flesh of his side, warmth seeping into his shirt.

He glanced down.

The rifle bullet that had torn the page had torn his shirt too, leaving a shallow gash in his side, just below his ribs. Stiles pulled the hem of his shirt up, looking at the wound. It wasn't too bad, but it was going to make things difficult.

"Today is not my day," Stiles said through gritted teeth.

Stiles tugged the bottom of shirt back down and stepped out into the open yard. He crossed the courtyard and stepped through another open gate. Before him stood a grassy area, the wavering emerald blades parted by large pillars, charred black.

Stiles stepped over to one of the nearest pillars, grabbing onto the carved ridges and pulling himself up onto the broken top of it. He too a second to steady himself before pouncing to the the next pillar. He fumbled to grab the ledge, one of his hands grabbing the ridge while the other missed. He dug his fingers in, tightening his grip and holding himself there.

He reached up with the other hand, wincing as pain dug into his side. He pulled himself up onto the pillar and scurried across the bridging stonework that connected that column to the next.

He leapt from one column to the next with a surprisingly agile grace until he stopped; the next pillar was too far away for him to jump to.

Before him, a length of rope hung from the crumbling pillar.

"That's not going to hold for long," Stiles noted.

He looked around, there were no other options.

He eyed the rope, his stomach twisting nervously. He drew in a deep breath and uttered under his breath, "All or nothing."

He leapt into the air, grabbed the rope and swung himself against the large pillar in front of him. He kicked off, the column collapsing and levelling out a platform for him to land on.

The rope began to shake, the sound of crumbling rock reaching his ears.

"Oh crap," he said as he swung forwards again and let go of the rope. He dropped down onto the debris, glancing back just in time to see the large pillar break apart and shatter against the grass-covered rocky ground below.

He let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding, weak laughter falling past his quivering lips.

There was another loud crack.

Stiles' heart lurched into his throat, his blood running cold as the debris below him began to shake.

"No, no, no," he gasped.

He kicked up his heels and ran along the ledge, towards the tower.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

He ran, his legs flailing about and stumbling beneath him as he ignored the searing pain of his protesting muscles and forced himself to keep going.

The bridging column began to tremble, cracking and crumbling as they fell away.

 _Run_ , he told himself, keeping his eyes focused on the tower ahead of him.

He ran.

 _Faster_ , his mind shouted at him.

His feet pounded against the stone, his heart racing in his chests and his lungs burning as he gulped down air.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," he hissed.

He kicked off the edge of the pillar and leapt into the air.

He held his breath, reaching out with his arms. He felt his fingers brush against the rough bricks and watched his hand grab at the ledge.

His body slammed into the side of the tower with a painful thud, making him shout in pain.

Stiles let out a grunt of pain as he pulled himself onto the ledge and into the tower, his feet hitting the buckling weathered floor boards. The wooden boards groaned beneath his feet, crying out in protest as Stiles stepped forward.

His eyes fell upon the ivory-white, sun-bleached bones of a skeleton, a length of rope coiled around him.

"Oh god," Stiles gasped.

He exhaled heavily and stepped forward.

He crouched down next to the skeleton and noticed a set of old brass keys that lay beneath the body.

"Oh god," he muttered. He drew in a deep breath and composed himself. He pushed the skeleton over the edge of the broken boards, listening to the bones rattle as they fell and shatter against the bottom of the tower.

"I'm sorry," he called after the bones.

He picked up the old brass keys and hooked them onto his belt.

He glanced over the edge of the broken platform.

The rope had untangled with the falling remains.

Stiles grabbed the rope, giving it a small tug to make sure that the beam in the rafters it was attached to would hold him. He swung out over the hole in the floor and lowered himself down to the bottom of the tower.

He stepped out through the open doorway, looking out across the fortress. Across small bridge was a large oak door with an aged brass lock; the metal tainted with shades of green and orange.

Stiles made his way over to the door, pulling the keys from his belt and testing each key in the lock. "No, nope, no..." One of the keys slid in. He turned it, listening as the lock slid back into with a loud click. A bright smile lit up his face as he whispered, "Yes. Now we're getting somewhere."

He stepped into a large room, the walls of the entrance lined with crates— some had lids pried open and their contents empty, some were shattered into splintered slivers of wood, and others were left alone to collect dust. He stepped into the large room; the sides of the open space barred off with prison cells. The room bent around into a long hallway, bricked off in individual cells.

Stiles made his way along the hallway, his eyes darting about the lingering shadows as he walked past the prison cells.

There was no sign of Derek.

"Where the hell is he?" Stiles whispered to himself.

He walked over to the door on the far side of the room. He twisted the doorknob but it didn't budge.

It was barred shut on the other side.

Stiles took a step back and slammed his shoulder into the door. He stepped back again and threw himself against the door.

There was a loud crack as the small lock gave way.

Stiles stumbled forward into a narrow hallway.

He swallowed hard, his eyes frantically darting about the shadows that lingered between the stacked crates; the walls arching around him and the boxes threatening to fall and crush him.

He made his way over to another old door and shoved it open.

Beyond the door was a large room that looked like quarters. The curved wall was lined with ornate balusters that framed the window-like openings. A cool breeze rolled through the room. On the far side of the room was a small balcony that overlooked the bay.

Stiles looked around the room. The furniture was made of whittled oak, the wood splintering and buckling with age.

His eyes fell upon a helmet that sat atop one of the tables. Beside it laid an old musket rifle—the wooden panels bleached by the sun and warped by the salty sea air—and a sabre. He frowned in confusion as he stepped over to it, picked it up and eyed it suspiciously.

"This isn't Spanish," he muttered to himself. "These are English."

He set the helmet down on the table again and turned to look at the faded piece of parchment that lay beside them.

Stiles picked it up, looking at the illustration of the island; a map. He recognised some of the markers: the ruins by the waterfall, the fortress, and the large building across the bay. Beneath it there was scrawls of ink, a message.

"Fletcher," Stiles read, "we have gone to the great tower. I pray that you will meet us there." His heart skipped a beat as he read the signature. "Francis Drake."

He looked at the illustration, his breath falling past his lips as a strange sense of relief washed over him. "So, you made it this far," Stiles mused, forcing himself to drag his eyes away from the wall. He looked out across the bay, his legs numb as they carried him out to the balcony. "What were you plotting?"

On the balcony there was another table, atop of it sat an old brass spyglass.

"This must have been Drake's," Stiles said as he carefully picked it up.

He looked through the eyepiece, past the smeared, dirty glass and across the bay. He spied a large building with a dome-like roof; the old glass misted and tinged orange; the building similar to the illustration on the map. Just before the large building were large wooden piers and in the shallows of the water, Stiles spied the wreckage of large boats; their hulls jutting out of the water like clustered rocks as both Spanish and English ships were left in ruin.

"The ships never left," Stiles muttered.

He moved the spyglass, looking down at the cliffside that bordered the fortress. His attention was drawn to a figure standing upon a grassy knoll, looking out across the bay.

Stiles' heart leapt.

"Derek," he gasped.

"Hey, there he is," Stiles heard a voice say below him.

He lowered the spy glass and looked down over the edge of the balcony. He saw two guards standing on one of the platforms below him, each carrying a large grenade launcher.

Stiles’ gut twisted with crippling nausea. His breath fell short of his lips, his heart slamming against his ribs as bile rose into his throat.

He watched one of the guards hoist the grenade launcher onto his shoulder and aimed it, laughing as if it were a schoolyard prank.

"Derek," Stiles rasped, his voice tearing at his throat as the name fell past his lips. "No."

Stiles dropped the spy glass, the brass antique hitting the tiled balcony with a thundering crack; the sound tearing through Stiles.

Stiles felt his blood run cold, his body moving by instinct as he drew his pistol, cocked it and fired.

The bullet tore through the man's skull, splattering blood across the railing as his body toppled forward.

The other guard spun around, his eyes wide with shock. He shouted something but Stiles didn't hear it; his eyes were focused on Derek, standing on the shoreline, his sparkling eyes focused on something across the bay.

Stiles didn't see the guard hoist his grenade launcher onto his shoulder; he was too busy watching the sunlight dance across Derek's skin.

He was safe; he was alive.

The guard aimed his grenade launcher at the balcony and fired.

Stiles didn't get the chance to react.

The platform shattered, chunks of stone falling away as the blast hurled Stiles aside. He struck something solid, letting out a weak grunt before collapsing to the ground.

His vision was filled with bursts of light and colour as a weak moan fell past his lips.

His head throbbed, his limbs numb and unmoving.

Darkness crept in around the corners of his vision, seeping in like dye through water; consuming him.

He let a frail breath fall past his lips as his eyes fell shut.

he ground beneath him fell away and he sank into darkness.

Somewhere beyond the darkness, he heard a man—one of the guards—shout, "We got him!"


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Stiles felt was the jolt of pain as something small, hard and sharp hit his cheek.

He tried to stir, but his body wouldn't move.

Another sharp jolt of pain caught his attention as something hit his forearm.

He grunted as he blinked his eyes open. He watched a small rock clattered across the tiles before falling still.

Another rock hit him in the gun, making him flinch.

He felt his jaw tighten, rage brewing in his veins as he rolled over and glared up at the dark figure that looked down on him from the small window that sat high in the wall.

"So you are alive?" a familiar voice remarked.

"Go to hell," Stiles responded instinctively.

He blinked away the haze in his eyes. Confusion struck him as he sat up and looked around the dark room, the surrounding brick walls lined with moss and mildew.

"I know I'm not a big-time treasure hunter like you, but I doubt you're gonna find El Dorado in there," Derek teased. "How'd you get yourself in this mess?"

"Trying to save you, as a matter of fact," Stiles said as he rose to his feet shakily, making his way over to the thick iron bars that barricaded the small opening in the cell wall.

"Me?" Derek repeated, his brow raised in surprised. "Well, I guess it's only fair that I return the favour."

"And how are you going to do that?" Stiles asked, his head clearing as he looked up at Derek.

Derek's clear eyes drifted to the stone wall as he eyed it.

"Traditional sandstone brick and stucco," he mused. "Held together by limestone mortar."

Stiles blinked in surprise. "How'd you...?"

"I'm a historical journalist," Derek said, his voice dry as he tried to hide the hint of offence he took. "I do my research. I wrote an entire article on the architecture of the New World."

"Okay, I have to admit, I'm impressed."

Derek ignored him. He grabbed the bars that covered the window and tugged at them. They shook slightly. A small smile quirked Derek's lips as he said, "Yep, it'll just take a tug to pull these bars out."

Derek stepped away from the window, jumping down from the crate he was standing on.

"Wait," Stiles called after him. "Are you sure...?"

He didn't get to finish his sentence; Derek was gone.

"And there he goes again," Stiles murmured.

His shoulders dropped as he turned to look around the confines of his cell.

The moment of peace was interrupted by the thundering how of a familiar voice.

Stiles' blood ran cold, a chill clawing at his spine as he heard the man bellow, "Get out of my way, you idiot! Open the goddamn door!"

"Oh crap," Stiles muttered as his eyes focused on the small oak door outside his cell.

There was an ear-splitting crack as the man kicked the door open, the wood splintering as it fell away from the wall.

The young man staggered into the room, a wicked smile contorting his face as he focused his dark, hollow eyes on Stiles.

"Stilinski," he seethed through gritted teeth. "Long time, no see."

"Donovan," Stiles replied curtly. "I should have guessed you'd be here."

Donovan ignored him. He ran his hand through the mess of limp, sweat-soaked dark hair that clung to his forehead. His wicked smile grew wider as he held up the familiar piece of aged paper: the map. He sauntered over to the cell door, holding it before Stiles tauntingly as he said, "It's a fascinating document, isn't it?"

Stiles didn't reply.

"It seems that Sir Francis Drake was in my line of work," Donovan continued.

"Don't flatter yourself, Donovan," Stiles replied coldly.

Donovan chuckled. "Always ready to be enemies, aren't you, Stilinski?"

"That tends to happen when you kill the people I care about," Stiles growled.

"Your father? That was years ago," Donovan said, a hint of humour in his voice.

"That doesn't make it any better."

"Your father let my dad walk into the line of fire," Donovan seethed, rage brewing in the dark depths of his eyes.

"He should have waited for back up like my dad said," Stiles argued. "You lost your dad, so you mine from me, and now you question why I don't trust you?"

Donovan shrugged. He sat down atop a table that sat nearby, resting his feet on the seat as he drew his obnoxious gold-plated gun from its holster. "I don't need you to trust me, Stiles. I just need you to lead me to the gold. Do that, and I might just let you live."

Stiles raised his brow. "That's it?" he asked. "That's my deal; die now or help you and die later?"

Donovan didn't reply.

Stiles pretended to think about it.

"It's a tough call," he said jokingly. "But, you know what? I'll take 'die now'."

Donovan kicked over the chair and leapt to his feet.

"Shit!" he howled, lunging at the bars of the jail cell.

Stiles stood still, refusing to flinch.

"Listen to me, you maggot," Donovan hissed. "I was promised treasure on this goddamn rock! And you've gone and stuffed that all up. My men are dying and I want my treasure!"

Donovan slammed his fist against the bars before throwing his hands up in anger and turning away.

Behind him, Stiles heard a quiet clink of metal against metal as Derek looped a hook around the iron bars on the window.

Stiles couldn't help but smirk.

Donovan wheeled around, narrowing his fierce glare on Stiles as he said, "I am making you a fair offer, Stilinski! You help me find the treasure and the last man alive gets the gold..." A smile lifted his face as he coyly offered, "Last man alive gets the goods, and I'm not talking about El Dorado; I'm talking about your friend."

"My friend?" Stiles asked, raising his brow.

"That journalist."

"Derek? Oh, Donovan," Stiles said, his voice laced with mock pity. "He's long gone. He's probably off the island by now, gone for help."

Donovan levelled his glare with Stiles. After a moment, a smirk lifted the corners of his lips.

"You were never very good at poker, Stiles," Donovan replied. "I will find him, trust me. How much trouble could one guy be?"

There was a thundering crash as the bricks were pulled free of the wall.

Stiles spun around, blinking against the bright light that poured into his cell.

Across the courtyard, he saw Derek in the driving seat of a faded blue jeep.

A smile lifted Stiles' face.

"Well?" Derek called. "Come on!"

Stiles ran across the debris, pulling the hook free of the old iron bar as Derek pulled in the winch. He vaulted the car door and leapt into the passenger's seat of the jeep.

"Nice work," he said.

Derek smiled at him. "Thanks. Now, let's get going."

The engine revved, the wheels spinning as the jeep reversed through the courtyard. Derek pushed the gear stick into place and pushed his foot down on the accelerator.

Behind them, Stiles could hear Donovan shouting orders to his men.

"After them!"

"Derek," Stiles started.

Derek reached back between the seats and offered Stiles a handgun.

"Dear God, you are the perfect man," Stiles mused, his hands moving by instinct as he checked the clip and cocked the gun.

Stiles pulled his legs up onto the seat and climbed into the back of the jeep. Beside him lay an array of guns and ammunition.

"Derek," Stiles called over his shoulder. "Whatever happens next, just keep driving."

"Got it.”


	5. Chapter 5

The jeep bounced over the rocks and tree roots that jutted out of the dusty, uneven path. The tendrils of vines slapped at the hood of the jeep, snapping away from the trees that held them and dropping branches onto the path behind them.

Stiles grabbed a rifle and loaded it. He pulled the lever back into place and cocked it, aiming down the barrel at the truck that drove towards them. He pulled the trigger, the bullets shattering the glass of the truck’s windscreen and leaving spiderweb-like fissures around the holes.

He fired again, the shot hitting the driver.

The man slumped forward, the truck spinning out of control and into the dense trees.

The jeep behind them slammed into the truck, filling the air with the painful screech and thundering crunch of buckling metal.

A man dragged himself from the wreckage, drenched in blood and dragging a heavy gun with him as another car pulled up and the mercenaries hoisted him into the back of the jeep.

“Go! Go! Go!” Stiles shouted over his shoulder, cocking the rile and taking aim.

The other jeep swerved about, weaving their way through the labyrinth of trees and ruins as they avoided Stiles’ shots and returned gunfire.

“Holy shit,” Stiles heard Derek curse.

“Keep your head down and your eyes on the road!” Stiles shouted over the noise.

Derek pushed his foot down on the accelerator, the engine revving as the Jeep tore through the jungle and bounced down the track.

Stiles heard the familiar hum of a quadbike, his attention drawn to the approaching man on the rusty old bike.

Stiles cocked the rifle and fired, shooting out the engine of the bike and watching as it erupted into flames; pieces of debris and charred metal hurled their way.

“Holy crap!” Derek gasped, swerving across the track as he tried to avoid the debris.

Stiles lost his footing in the back of the truck, sliding to one side and hitting the metal side with a heavy thud. He gritted his teeth and winced as pain flooded through his back.

The sound of gunfire split the air as bullets tore past his face.

Stiles ducked, glancing out the back of the Jeep at the large truck that drove towards them, a machine gun mounted to it.

“Stiles!” Derek called, his voice full of fear.

“I’m on it,” Stiles shouted back.

“Brace yourself!” Derek warned as he spun the wheel and the jeep took a hard right.

Stiles slid across the back of the jeep, losing his grip on the rifle as he slammed into a solid case. He undid the buckles and threw the lid open.

“My three favourite letters,” Stiles muttered to himself as he picked up the gun and loaded the large ammunition into the barrel. He crawled back into the centre of the Jeep and took aim at the large truck, a wicked grin on his face as he spelt it out; “RPG.”

He pulled the trigger, his body jerking back with the force as the munition was propelled forward.

The truck erupted in flames, the sound of gunfire dying away to the quiet crackling of the raging fire.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked.

“I’m fine,” Stiles answered. He set down the RPG and grabbed his rifle, loading the gun before looking back at Derek. “Are you alright?”

Derek didn’t answer; his glimmering aventurine eyes were focused on something in his side mirror. “On the left!”

Stiles spun around, aimed the gun and fired, the bullet tearing through the head of the man approaching on the motor bike.

“Brace yourself,” Derek warned.

Stiles grabbed the frame of the window, his fingers digging into the ridges as the Jeep’s wheels skidded across the dusty track.

“Watch the cliff!” Stiles shouted, his voice breaking slightly as he stared out the window and down at the rocky bluffs and churning sea far below them.

“I see it,” Derek snapped back, his eyes focused on the road ahead of them as they drove into the shadows of the tunnelling caver carved into the cliff wall. The jagged rock arched over them like a tunnelling wave, the cliff edge disappearing beneath the rippling sheet of azure water that coursed down the side of the craggy bluffs and into the ocean.

The light was blinding as they emerged from the shadows.

Stiles winced as he looked out the back of the Jeep.

“Shit,” Derek cursed, slamming on the brakes and violently jerking the wheel to one side.

The back of the Jeep swung around.

Stiles was hurled towards the open back of the jeep, his feet slamming into the metal either side of the open doors as the jeep came to a screaming halt, the rear end exposed to the rocky bluffs below.

Stiles’ heart lurched into his throat, his blood running cold as he stared down at the drop.

Derek revved the engine, driving back the way they came.

“I said watch the cliff!” he bellowed at Derek, heaving in deep breaths as his thundering heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

He held his breath, fighting off his growing panic attack and the rising fit of rage as he grabbed his rifle and rose to his feet. He ignored the tremor in his hand and the unsteadiness of his legs as he wound down the side window, wrapped the seatbelt around his leg like a security harness and leant out the window.

“Are you alright back there?” Derek asked.

“Just drive,” Stiles growled through gritted teeth.

Derek drove back through the tunnelling rock shelf that was hidden behind the waterfall and back towards the dense jungle.

A speeding jeep drove straight towards them.

“Stiles,” Derek called, his voice tense and strained with fear.

He dug his foot into the set to secure himself and lifted his rifle to take aim. “I’ve got it.”

The jeep drew closer to them.

“Stiles,” Derek repeated.

“I’ve got it,” Stiles said again, ignoring the man’s fear.

The jeep sped towards them.

Derek’s knuckles were white as he grabbed the wheel. “Stiles!”

Stiles pulled the trigger, the bullet tearing through the front of the jeep and into the engine.

There was a thundering boom as the charging jeep erupted into flames, the force of the explosion propelling it over them.

Stiles climbed back into the Jeep as Derek spun the wheel and drove down the forking path. “I told you I had it.”

The jeep drove on down the bumpy track, the path weaving though the moss-covered ruins of the ancient city.

“Uh… Stiles?” Derek called.

Stiles turned around, looking out the front window. He heart sank into his gut, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at the path ahead: at the old stone bridge that fell away to nothing.

“Step on it,” Stiles instructed.

“Stiles—”

“Floor it!”

Derek slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The engine revved as the jeep sped towards the jagged edge.

Stiles felt his throat tighten, his heart skipping a beat as the stone bridge gave way beneath them.

The wheels spun through the air, the engine revving as the jeep plummeted. They hit the far side of the bridge with a loud thud, the stony arch crumbling slightly.

Derek pushed down on the pedals, the wheels spinning as they desperately tried to find traction.

The jeep lunged forward, the wheels screeching as the car sped off down the track that vanished into the depths of the jungle.

Stiles exhaled heavily, slumping back against the wall of the Jeep and running his hands through his hair as he muttered, “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

After a moment, Derek’s voice broke the silence. “So, who was that guy back there? An old friend of yours?"

"No, just a part of my past I'd rather forget," Stiles answered. Stiles glanced into the front of the jeep, his words dying away in his throat as his heart skipped a beat.

The road ahead of them came to an end; the stone pathway giving way to the chasm below them.

Stiles found his voice and shouted, “Look out!”

Derek slammed his foot down on the breaks and swung the wheel to one side.

The wheels skidded across the loose stones as the back end of the jeep swung out of the broken edge of the bridge.

The engine stalled and the jeep slid to a halt.

Stiles lost his grip and bounced into the back of the jeep. His body slammed into the metal crates and the scattered weaponry, pain flooding his body as he fought to find a grip on something.

He slid down the back of the cabin, air rushing past him as he fell out of the back of the jeep.

His arms and legs flailed about as he tried to find a grip on something.

His hand hit something hard and he grabbed a hold of it, his body jerking as it came to a sudden stop.

He cursed under his breath, tightening his grip on the spare tyre fastened to the back of the jeep.

“Stiles,” Derek called, pulling the handbrake and turning to look at Stiles. “Hold on.”

Stiles looked down, his gut twisting as he stared down at the inky-black pool of water far below them.

Derek turned around in his seat, coiling a seatbelt around his leg to anchor himself as he reached back. “Here—grab my hand.”

Stiles reached up with his other hand, reaching for Derek’s hand.

The jeep teetered on the edge of the broken bridge, the metal groaning as it rocked slightly.

Small rocks fell away from the edge of the cliff, clattering as they rolled down into the pooled water below.

“Oh, crap,” Stiles uttered.

“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice surprisingly soft despite the tense fear in his tone. “Take my hand.”

Stiles drew in a dee breath, trying to steady his breathing as he reached for Derek’s hand again. He strained his muscles, reaching as far as he could.

His fingertips brushed against Derek’s.

“Come on,” Stiles huffed, trying desperately to reach further.

Derek pulled himself free of the seatbelt and reached further, grabbing Stiles’ forearm. He tightened his grip and pulled the young man back into the jeep.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh as he clambered up through the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, his eyes fixed on Derek as he reached for the keys and tried to start the engine.

Derek drew in a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart as he nodded and replied, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Stiles nodded and turned his attention to the car.

The engine sputtered and coughed but didn’t turn over.

Stiles cursed under his breath and tried again.

“You’re bleeding,” Derek pointed out.

Stiles followed the man’s gaze down to Stiles’ upper arm where the shotgun blast had hit him earlier, the streams of red and brown seeping into the cotton of his shirt.

“It comes with the territory,” Stiles replied.

The engine coughed and groaned, falling silent for a second before roaring to life.

Stiles chuckled slightly, a wave of relief washing over him as he reached for the gearstick. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Stiles lifted his gaze to the road ahead, freezing as his eyes fell on the large truck that pulled up before them; blocking their path.

Armed mercenaries climbed out the back of the truck, hurrying into position and aiming their guns at Stiles and Derek.

A young man climbed out of the cabin, clapping slowly—mockingly—as he walked towards the jeep.

Donovan smirked, his hands falling still as he raised his brow at Stiles. “Going somewhere?”

“Just giving our journalist friend the ten dollar tour,” Stiles jested.

“Shut up!” Donovan snapped. He reached behind himself and drew a short-barrel shotgun from the small of his back. “You’re working with them too, aren’t you?”

Stiles frowned in confusion. “What?”

“You thought you could set me up, take me out and keep all the treasure for yourselves, huh?” Donovan said accusingly, sneering as he raised the barrel of the shotgun.

“Get down!” Stiles shouted, grabbing Derek and pulling him down below the dashboard as Donovan fired.

The shot shattered the windscreen, raining glass over them.

Stiles waited until the fragments of glass fell still before he dared to look up at Derek.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“This guy is crazy,” Derek hissed.

“I know,” Stiles replied.

He drew in a deep breath and slowly rose high enough to peer over the dashboard.

“Donovan,” he called, trying to keep his voice level and calm. “Take it easy.”

Donovan laughed, a deep, dry chuckle that sent shivers up Stiles’ spine. His face peeled back into a cynical smile as he said, “I told you you’d run out of luck one day, Stilinski. And you’ve run out of road too.” He cocked the shotgun. “Give me the map.”

Stiles glanced down at Derek.

“Can you swim?” he whispered.

Derek nodded.

“Good,” Stiles said, keeping his voice low. “Hold on.”

“Don’t move!” Donovan bellowed.

“Relax,” Stiles called, his voice steady. “I’m just getting the map, like you asked. Unless you want to come over here and reach into my back pocket.”

“Hand over the map, Stilinski,” Donovan hissed.

Stiles reached for the gearstick, sliding it into reverse.

Derek’s eyes widened with realisation.

“I said hold on,” Stiles whispered.

“I am,” Derek growled in response.

Stiles grabbed a hold of the steering wheel, his grip so tight his rigid knuckles where white against his skin.

“The map, Stilinski,” Donovan said, warningly.

“You said not to move,” Stiles reminded him. “So, if you want the map, you’re going to have to come and get it.”

Stiles slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The wheels spun and the jeep lurched backwards.

Stiles felt the air rush past him, the roaring wind tearing the breath from his lungs as he fell, weightlessly, into the water below.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a loud crash as the water engulfed Stiles, the waves crashing together as he was dragged towards the depths.

The sounds of the shouting soldiers died away, his ears filling with the sound of his heartbeat drumming in his ears.

He shut his eyes and held his breath, fighting the instinct to breath in as he fell still beneath the undulating waves; his lung consumed by a raging inferno.

The world around him seemed to drift away, growing distant as he sank further into the water.

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide, filled with a burning fire of determination and rage.

He pulled his legs up onto the car seat and kicked away, swimming towards the surface.

He burst out of the water, gasping for air.

He spun around, looking for Derek. His eyes fell upon the man and he shouted, “Go! Go!”

Derek didn’t hesitate; he followed Stiles’ lead and swam towards the shore.

Stiles heard a sharp whistle tear through the air as a bullet flew by him, hitting the water nearby. Another bullet hit nearby and another, growing closer and closer as the men aimed form above.

“Shit,” Stiles hissed, swimming faster.

His feet found footing on the old tiled path that was submersed beneath the water. He kicked up his heels and started running, sprinting for the toppled ruins and hiding beneath a fallen column. He drew his pistol from his holster, checked the loaded ammunition and cocked it. He rose from behind his shelter, taking aim and firing at the men on the ridge.

One man fell weakly to the ground while another toppled over the edge of the plateau, his body hitting the water with a painful crack.

Stiles lowered his gun and turned around, his eyes searching the dull, grey ruins. The old slate was darkened by patches of black and lingering shadows and draped in thick sheets of lush green vines that hung like curtains over the archways and pillars. Clumps or spindly grass and gathering large-leafed lilies broke through the pavers.

Stiles turned about in circles, his chest tightening as his heartbeat quickened.

“Derek?” he called.

There was no reply.

“Derek?!”

From beyond the small courtyard he could hear the sounds of men fighting.

He kicked up his heels and ran towards the small archway. He burst into the clearing and saw a large man with his arm locked around Derek's throat.

“Derek,” Stiles called, unable to hide the panic in his voice.

Stiles' cold glare fell on the mercenary, his primal instincts and years of training kicking in. He clenched his fist and lunged forward, slamming his knuckles into the mercenary's jaw and knocking the man back.

He stumbled backwards, letting go of Derek.

Stiles slammed the heel of his boot into the man's gut and swung his arm, slamming his fist into the man's jugular. He felt bones break beneath his hand, leaving the gasping for air.

Stiles quickly stepped aside and pulled the mercenary into a headlock. He grabbed the man's chin and jerked his head to the side.

A loud crack echoed about the open space as the man fell still in Stiles' arms.

Stiles let go of the man's body, letting him fall to the ground as the young man's shoulders heaved with deep breaths. He looked up at Derek, the man staring back at him; stunned and silent.

Stiles felt a wave of shame was over him as he looked away from Derek, grabbing the AK-47 that was strapped to the mercenary's back, shrugging it over his shoulder and making his way over to a large metal gate.

He stepped over to a winch and grabbed the carved handles. He pulled down, spinning the wheel.

The chains rattles as they coiled around the barrel, pulling the gate up until the cast iron bars locked into place. Stiles made his way through the doorway, stepping onto a small embankment that sat over a streaming river.

Stiles let out a heavy breath, raking his fingers through his hair.

"This was a big mistake," he muttered.

Derek chuckled. "I know," he replied. "I should have turned before the bridge."

Stiles looked over his shoulder at the man, his voice full of false humour as he said, "Ha, that's funny."

Derek sat down on a piece of rubble, lifting one leg onto the rock and resting his camera on his thigh as he began to search through the footage. "Come here. I want to show you something."

"That think still works?" Stiles asked, slightly shocked.

"Yeah. Check this out."

Stiles stepped over to his side, leaning over his shoulder to look at the small screen on the video camera.

Derek leant back, his shoulder resting against Stiles’ chest and his head fitting into the curve of Stiles’ neck as he angled the screen towards them, showing Stiles the footage he had recorded from the isle.

“See this building in the harbour?” Derek pointed at the screen, where the video panned over an old building that stretched across the bay.

It was the building that Stiles had seen through the spy glass, the one with dome-like roof; the old glass misted and tinged orange; the building similar to the illustration on the map. Just before the large building were large wooden piers and in the shallows of the water, Stiles spied the wreckage of large boats; their hulls jutting out of the water like clustered rocks as both Spanish and English ships were left in ruin.

Derek continued, “That's where all the boats coming into the colony would've unloaded their cargo. So, if the El Dorado treasure came to this island, it would have had to come through here.”

“Wait a minute,” Stiles muttered. “What was that?”

“What?” Derek asked.

“Rewind it.”

Derek did.

“There.”

Derek played the footage.

“There,” Stiles repeated, pointing at the boat that was anchored in the harbour. “That’s out ticket out of here.”

Stiles stepped back and made his way over to the small pier that hugged the bank. Tied up to the tier was a sleek black jet ski, rocking slightly as the undulating water lapped t the support beams below the wooden planks.

Derek didn’t move.

“Out ticket out of here?” he repeated. “You’re giving up?”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we’re kind of outnumbered,” Stiles pointed out.

Derek shrugged. “We seem to be doing fine so far.”

Stiles turned on him, his body fuelled with rage as he snapped, “Derek, I have enough bullet-riddled corpses on my conscience, I am not going to add yours too it! Now, let’s go.”

Derek met Stiles’ glare with his own cold, composed gaze as he said, “If you want to quit, go ahead, but don’t use me as an excuse.”

“Fine,” Stiles growled. “It’s me, okay? I quit. Now, are you coming or not?”

Stiles turned and made his way towards the jet ski.

“So that's it?” Derek asked, his voice low and soft as he rose to his feet. “You're just going to forget about the treasure? And forget about Drake?”

Stiles turned on him. “This is not worth dying over!”

“Okay,” Derek said softly. “Okay. But, either way, we have to head back to the harbour.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue.

“We can argue about it later,” Derek interrupted. He offered Stiles a smile, his voice laved with acidic sarcasm as he added, “It'll be great.”

Derek shrugged the strap of his camera onto his shoulder and stepped around Stiles, making his way over to the pier.

“Wait,” Stiles called after him.

Derek turned around to face him, his brows quirked curiously.

Stiles turned and walked past him. “This time, I drive.”

 

 

The engine of the jet ski hummed as it glided across the water, bouncing slightly over the undulating waves as they made their ways through the flooded ruins of the sunken city.

Derek sat on the back of the jet ski, his hands set on Stiles' hips as he looked around the flooded buildings and debris, occasionally pulling out his camera to film the passing ruins.

“What happened to this place?” Derek muttered to himself.

“The city flooded,” Stiles answered, steering the jet ski around the curving corner and down the streaming river that coursed between the rising cavern walls.

"But I don't get it," he mused. "How does a whole colony just drop out of history?"

"I don't know," Stiles muttered.

"You know, I read a story once about a cursed Inca treasure," Derek said quietly. "You don't think that--"

"Please don't tell me you believe in that stuff" Stiles interrupted.

"I'm just saying..." Derek paused. He looked around at the flooded city. "Something bad happened here. A whole colony doesn't just up and vanish."

Stiles let out a heavy sigh. "I suppose. But cursed treasure? That's the sort of thing that only exists in fairy tales and mythology."

"Well then, how do you explain it?" Derek asked.

Stiles shrugged slightly. "I don't know."

He steered the jet ski on, weaving his way through the archways of broken bridges and walls of sunken buildings.

There was a loud crack as bullets tore through the air, narrowly missing the two of them.

"Get down," Stiles called over his shoulder.

Derek hunched over, hiding behind Stiles' back as Stiles revved the engine and drove the jet ski behind the shelter of ruins.

Stiles shrugged off the strap of the AK-47 and passed the gun back to Derek. "I need you to cover us."

Derek reluctantly took the gun from him, swallowing hard as he loaded the clip into the gun and cocked it.

Stiles revved the engine and tore off, the jet ski leaving foaming waves in its wake as it skimmed between the ruins.

Behind him, Derek took aim. He fired at the men on the balconies, the bullets tearing through their armour and leaving their limp bodies to fall over the railings and into the water.

The river came to an end, the channel blocked by the slanted tiles of what had once been a roof.

"Hold on!" Stiles shouted over his shoulder.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist, his hand grabbing at a fistful of Stiles' shirt.

Stiles twisted the throttle, the engine roaring to life as the jet ski flew forward. The water parted around them, the air tearing at them as the jet ski sped itself forward, hitting the ramping fallen roof and launching them into the harbour.

The jet ski hit the water with a loud thwack.

Stiles spun the steering column, the jet ski spinning to the side as it skidded to a halt.

Stiles let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. He let the jet ski rest at an idle hum as he sat back slightly, his shoulders dropping as he felt the tension in his body disappear.

Derek's grip on his shirt weakened. He sat back slightly, his hand resting on Stiles' hip as his shimmering eyes searched their surroundings.

"There it is," Derek said, relief filling his voice as his eyes fell upon the building across the harbour.

"Now we just need to find a way past that gate," Stiles said, nodding towards the lattice of heavy cast iron bars.

"There looks like there's a winch up there." Derek pointed at the small platform on the wall; the remnants of what would have been a walkway.

Stiles looked around, thinking about it for a moment before he said. "Okay. I should be able to get up there."

He steered the jet ski over to the shallows and swung his legs over the edge. He leapt onto the slanted platform, his boots landing in the shallow pooling water. He turned back to Derek and said, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

Derek nodded.

Stiles made his way along the small platform, climbing through what used to be a window. He balanced on the windowsill for a second before leaping to the floor of the next building. He grabbed a hold of the ledge, hauling himself up onto the level flooring.

He climbed up through the rubble of the rooms, making his way up onto the roofs. He put one foot in front of the other carefully, trying not to slip on the lichen-covered tiles. He made his way across to the edge that gave way to the floor below.

He jumped down, the landing jarring his ankles.

He swore under his breath as he rose to his feet and made his way over to the edge of the broken floor.

He was three storeys above the water. The dark teal water shifted between shades of green and blue, the faded grey ruins of walls, pillars and archways breaking the darkness of the deep water.

Before him, a vine hung from one of the branches of the trees that hung over the gully.

Stiles took a step back and braced himself. He lunged forward and threw himself over the gap. He grabbed the vine, his hands slipping slightly as he tightened his grip.

He swung back and hurled himself forward, letting go of the vine and jumping for the far ledge.

He hit the solid rock with a painful thud, rolling onto his side and skidding across the rock.

"Graceful," he muttered sarcastically to himself as he rose to his feet and ran his hand through his tousled hair.

He made his way along the pathway and over to the winch.

He grabbed the handles, pulling at the large wheel.

The chains rattled and groaned as they began to coil around the barrel of the winch.

The iron gate groaned as it rose slowly.

Streams of water and ribbons of seaweed and detritus clung to the bars, trickling from the gate as it rose form the water.

Stiles felt his muscles burn under the strain of lifting the gate, biting into his lip as he hoisted the gate higher until, finally, it locked into place.

"Down here," Derek called.

Stiles heard a quiet rumble as Derek pulled the jet ski up before the withered wooden scaffolding of the platform Stiles stood on.

Stiles lowered himself over the edge of the walkway, holding onto the edge of the old brickwork as he let his body hang over the water. He glanced down, lining himself up with one of the wooden planks on the scaffolding.

He let go of the ledge and fell.

His hands found a grip on the wooden plank, his body slamming into the scaffolding.

Stiles hissed, drawing breath through gritted teeth.

He made his way down the scaffolding, stopping above the jet ski. He found a foothold on the slanted wooden planks, letting go with one hand as he tried to aim his jump.

Derek shifted back on his seat and Stiles dropped down onto the jet ski. He pushed down on the throttle and drove through the gate.

There was a loud bang.

A bullet tore past Stiles' shoulder, tearing through the fabric of his shirt.

His eyes flew to the balcony of a nearby building where armed men aimed their barrels at the two of them.

"Take them out, Derek!" Stiles shouted.

Derek aimed the AK-47 and fired.

But he wasn't fast enough.

A bullet hit his gun, ricocheting off the metal and knocking the gun from his hands.

Derek toppled backwards, his body hitting the water with a loud crash. The foaming waves rose around him as the water dragged him beneath the surface.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed.

He swung the jet ski around and dove into the water.

Bullets rained around them, the sound of gunfire muffled by the water.

Stiles dove down to the bottom of the creek, sliding his arm under Derek’s arms. He braced his feet against the rocky bottom and pushed up towards the surface, kicking as hard as he could. He dragged the both of them to the surface, bursting into the open air and gasping.

The water knocked them about a little, bullets hitting nearby as Stiles did the best he could to stay afloat and swim towards the shelter of the nearby ruins.

"Derek?" he called, gasping and sputtering as he adjusted his grip on Derek to hold his chin above the water.

“Just drop me and run,” Derek growled, spitting water from his mouth.

“You could be a little more grateful, you know, I’m only keeping you alive,” Stiles barked, sputtering out mouthfuls of water as he struggled to hold the larger man above the surface.

“Why?” Derek asked. “I'm dead weight. You could drop me right now and save yourself.”

They dipped beneath the water. Stiles fought back, lifting them back above the tide.

“I told you, I've got a lot of deaths on my conscience, I'm not adding you to that list," Stiles replied, guiding Derek over to the shallows. He helped Derek steady himself before he reached for the pistol strapped to his chest. “And maybe I’m repaying you for helping me out back there, or maybe I just like you. Either way, will you just shut up and accept the fact that I’m saving you?”

Derek stared at him, shocked.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and composed himself. He exhaled slowly, letting the breath fall between his lips as he looked at Derek with concern. "Are you hurt?"

"A little," the man replied. "The bullet bounced off the gun. It clipped my hand and my arm."

"Show me," Stiles encouraged.

Derek haled out his hand.

The skin on the back of his hand had been torn open, but the wound was shallow. The wound on his upper arm was deeper, but nothing more than a flesh wound.

"I'm fine," Derek said dismissively.

"Okay," Stiles muttered. "See those doors over there?"

Stiles pointed across the space to the large mahogany doors to the large building.

"They open up into the customs house," Stiles explained. "If you can swim over there I'll draw fire, make my way around and unlock the doors from the inside."

Derek nodded.

"Stay low," Stiles instructed. "And stay safe."

"You too," Derek replied.

Stiles' lips quirked into a smile as he turned and swam towards the shore. He hauled himself out of the water and ran. The gunfire followed him, bullets chipping the rock away from the buildings and showering him in dust and debris.

His legs pedalled beneath him as he ran his eyes focused on the walls of the ruins ahead of him.

He sprinted at the wall and jumped, his hands grabbing the offset bricks. His fingers dug into the grooves and the bricks that jutted out of the wall as he began to scale the building. He climbed higher and higher.

He climbed up to one of the windows, grabbing the windowsill and pulling himself into the opening.

He dropped into the building.

He heard a loud bang as a gun fired and something landed beside him.

He glanced down.

It was a grenade.

"Oh crap," Stiles gasped as he dived behind one of the brick walls.

The grenade detonated, the explosion shattering the walls and throwing him across the tower.

He hit the far wall, his body collapsing weakly to the ground as his vision blurred and his ears ringing.

The walls gave way, bricks and debris scattered across the room. The wooden floorboards gave way, splintering as the debris broke through the floor.

The floor beneath him shook, the wood slanting towards the hole. He felt his body slide down towards the splintered opening.

He rolled onto his side, his hands raking at the wooden floorboards as he tried to find something that would stop his fall.

His hands slipped, the jagged edges of the broken wood scratching at his stomach as he plummeted into the darkness.

He curled up in a ball, shielding his head as he hit the floor below, the rotted wood giving way beneath him and dropping him onto the next floor.

He landed among a cluster of low-lying bushes and a blanket of moss.

He laid still, his body trembling as adrenaline left an icy chill in his veins. His lips quivered, his voice failing him as he muttered words.

“Hey, kid,” a familiar husky voice called. His voice felt like a distant memory, a strange comfort. He felt someone nudge his leg with the toe of their boot.

Stiles didn’t react, he kept his eyes shut.

“Come on, kid,” Chris muttered, chuckling softly. “On your feet.”

Stiles let out a weak moan.

“So, you’re giving up, huh?” the man asked. “I never thought you’d break.”

“No,” Stiles rasped, breathless.

“Hmm? What was that?” Chris said provokingly.

“I will never break,” Stiles growled through gritted teeth. He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it down on the floor. His feet skidded across the tiles as he rose to his feet.

He looked around; there was no one there.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and made his way towards the staircase. He staggered down the stairs and over to the large mahogany doors.

“Stiles?” Derek called from the other side, trying to keep his voice low. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles called. “Stand back.”

Stiles drew his pistol and aimed it at the lock. He fired, sparks flying about as the lock shattered open. He stepped forward and slammed his boot into the door, splintering the old wood.

The doors swung open on their hinges.

Derek stepped into the foyer, his pale aventurine eyes rolling over Stiles.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked, stepping over to Stiles' side.

"I'm fine," Stiles said dismissively as he ran the back of his hand across his face and wiped away the blood that streamed from his lips. He blinked heavily, clearing the lingering haze as he made his way across the foyer and towards a second staircase that lead away from the flooded rooms and up to a large set of doors. "Let's find a way to the harbour and hope the boat's still there."

Stiles staggered up the stairs and shoved open the doors. He holstered his weapon as he stepped into the large room and looked around the old library, his eyes wide with wonder as his gaze rolled across the large shelves full of old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.

The shelves covered all the walls, large ladders on casters were scattered about the room where the occupants had last left them. Higher up, there was a small platform that stretched around the room, a mezzanine that allowed them to access another storey of bookshelves that the ladders couldn't reach. High above everything was a dome-like sky light, the slightly misted glass allowing the golden light of day to fall into the large library.

On the far side of the room was a small fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. Atop the mantelpiece sat a few of the sturdier-looking books, some melted candles and a vase of sticks that had once been flowers.

Before the fireplace sat two arm chairs and a larger couch, each made of plush scarlet fabric that were covered in a fine gold stitches.

In the centre of the large room sat a large oak table, held up by finely carved wooden legs that were decorated with seams of silver. Atop of it was a scattered mess of maps, open books, ink pots, and quills.

Stiles stepped over to a nearby shelf, his fingers brushing across the spines of the old books. The inlaid gold and silver of the bindings read years.

Derek drew out his camera, panning across the large room before turning to look at Stiles staring at the books.

"These must be all the old ship manifests," Stiles said, carefully pulling one of the books from the shelf, dusting off the cover. "They seem to be in good shape."

He opened the cover and flipped through the pages. He carried it over to the table, setting it down on the large oak tabletop. His eyes were drawn to the other book that lay open on the table, the pages stained brown and faded with age.

"Look at this," he called.

Derek stepped over to his side.

"The Esperanza," Stiles read, translating the script from Spanish. "Sailed from Callao, Peru. Carrying eight hundred bars of gold, one-thousand-two-hundred silver. Emeralds... Golden masks, ornaments..."

"You read sixteenth-century Spanish?" Derek asked, a hint of admiration and surprise in his voice. "You're not just a grave robber after all, huh?"

Stiles ignored him and continued reading.

"Here," Stiles said excitedly, pointing to a line on the page. "Gold statue, weight: twenty arrobas. That's over five hundred pounds. That's got to be it."

He turned the page, revealing the illustration of the golden statue. El Dorado.

"That's it?" Derek asked.

Stiles nodded. "That's it."

Stiles turned the page. Nothing. He flipped through until the end of the book, his brow furrowed in confusion. "That's the last entry."

Stiles straightened his back, stepping back from the table slightly as he absentmindedly fiddled with the ring that hung from a leather band around his neck and rested against his collarbone. His finger ran across the familiar grooves.

Derek noticed, his eyes rolling over the young man as he tried to read him.

"Somebody special?" he asked.

His words shook Stiles from his daze; he turned to look at Derek. "What?"

Derek nodded towards the ring in Stiles' hand.

"Oh," Stiles muttered. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

Derek raised his eyebrows. "Really? I had you pegged as more of a got-a-woman-in-every-port kind of guy."

Stiles couldn't help but laugh.

"I wish," he said. "Now this-" He lifted the ring so Derek could see. "-was Sir Francis Drake's ring."

"How did you get a hold of it?" Derek asked, leaning forward to admire the engraved silver.

"I, uh... I inherited it," Stiles lied.

Derek didn't seem to notice, his glittering eyes were transfixed on the engravings as he read, "' _Sic parvis magna_ '?"

"'Greatness from small beginnings'," Stiles translated. "It was his motto. But check out the date."

Stiles turned the ring around to show Derek the engraved roman numerals.

"29th of January, 1596," Derek read.

"One day _after_ Sir Francis supposedly died," Stiles explained.

"And what about the numbers on the inside of the ring?" Derek asked, inching closer.

"They're coordinates," Stiles explained. "That lead to a place off the coast of Panama."

Derek's eyes flew open wide with realisation. "So that's how you found the coffin."

Stiles smirked. "Drake left this as a clue."

"For someone smart enough to work it out," Derek added, a hint of admiration in his voice as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles felt his heart flutter slightly, his lips twitching as he fought the urge to smile.

He saw the hint of hope in Derek's eyes and his face twisted into a stern expression as he said, "Nice try, but we're still going for that boat."

Stiles pulled back from Derek, the ring dropping back against his collar bone. He grabbed at the page with the illustration on it and tore it from the manifest.

He held it up before Derek's camera and said, "This is as close as we're getting to El Dorado."

Stiles turned and made his way around the desk, fighting a wave of anger that fuelled his blood.

"My family were killed in a house fire," Derek blurted out.

Stiles froze. He turned and looked at Derek, at the pain that filled the man's eyes.

"My ex doused our house in gasoline while we were asleep, locked the doors and lit the fire. Only three of us survived," Derek continued. "My uncle was hospitalised and put in an induced coma. My older sister and I had to fend for ourselves. Both of them died last year. Now it's just me. I got into archaeology and historical journalism because of my dad; he used to tell me all the stories when I was a kid and I chase down legends to keep those memories alive. When I started, everyone told me I was chasing daydreams and fairy tales, but it got me this far."

"Why are you telling me this?" Stiles asked.

"Something clearly has you upset," Derek pointed out. "I just want you to know you're not the only one with deaths on your conscience."

"Their deaths are not your fault," Stiles argued.

"They might as well be."

"My mother died of dementia. She was convinced I was a monster and that I was trying to kill her. She died believing that. My father was a deputy when Donovan’s dad was the sheriff. Donati got killed on a call out. My dad told him to wait for back up but he didn’t listen. Donovan was convinced that my dad let his father die so he got a gun and shot my dad. I was put in a state orphanage and ran away when I was twelve. I chased down my mother's notes on Drake, followed every lead I had until, one day, I got in over my head." Stiles let out a heavy sigh. He slumped down in one of the plush scarlet couch. He hung his head in his hands. "I was taken in by a good man and trained to be a mercenary and a commissioned treasure hunter. I was eighteen when my best friend and I ended up in a Panamanian jail, chasing down leads to hidden treasure. We got what we needed and we busted out." Stiles swallowed hard. "But he didn't make it. He missed a jump and caught the gutter.” Stiles paused, his heart sinking as he remembered the fear that flooded the dark pools of Scott’s eyes. “I turned back to help him but the guards put nine rounds in him."

Stiles dragged his hands down his face, fighting back the tears that streaked his vision.

He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he rasped, "And now Erica too."

“Their deaths were my fault.” He blinked back his tears and turned to look at Derek. "I don't want to add your name to that list."

Derek bowed his head.

"So, let's just get on that boat and go," Stiles said quietly as he rose to his feet and made his way over to the large glass doors that opened up onto a small balcony.

He looked out across the ocean, watching the rippling sheet of azure sway as drew close to the shore. The waves lapped at the broken hulls of the ruined Spanish ships.

"There." Stiles pointed to the boat that was anchored by the pier across the harbour. "Let's go."

"Why don't I wait here?" Derek offered, flashing Stiles a charismatic smile. "You can swing around, come back and pick me up."

Stiles let out a dry laugh as he turned around to face the man.  "Okay, what are you up to?"

"Nothing," Derek replied. "I just want to get some more footage."

Stiles narrowed his glare, eyeing Derek suspiciously.

"I'll be safe," Derek tried to assure him.

"And you promise you'll stay put?" Stiles asked.

Derek nodded and held up his hand like a scout pledge.

Stiles' brow furrowed but he conceded.  "Fine. I'll be right back."

He turned and made his way back through the library and down the narrow hallway. He made his way into one of the far rooms, crossing the empty space and stepping out onto the balcony.

The connecting walkway to the next building was barred off by decorative metal gates.

Stiles slammed his boot into the metal panelling, the rusting hinges giving way as the doors fell away from the bricks.

He stepped out onto the walkway, the platform rumbling and shaking beneath him. He froze, his arms outstretched as he listened to the gut-twisting sound of the brick falling away from the mortar.

There was a loud crack and the walkway jerked beneath him.

The platform tilted.

"Oh crap," Stiles gasped as he lost his footing, sliding down the tilted platform and towards the ominous drop. He tried to steady his breathing, digging his heels in as he skidded down the path.

The heel of his boot hit the jagged edge.

Stiles tensed his muscles and kicked off of the bricks, throwing himself forward.

He grabbed the edge of the walkway, his fingers digging into the bricks.

He pulled himself up onto the platform. He drew in deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

He continued along the walkway and over to the far building. He stepped over to the large decorative iron gates that barred the entrance and slammed his boot into the metal plating. There was a thundering boom as the doors flew open and Stiles stepped onto the mezzanine that overlooked a large foyer.

Something grabbed his shoulders, shoving him aside.

His back hit the wall and he let out a cry of pain as the man pinned him back against the uneven bricks.

Stiles tightened his jaw and fought back. He slammed is fists into the man's wrists, breaking his hold, and grabbed the man's shoulders, pulling him down as he slammed his knee into the man's gut.

The mercenary stumbled backwards, gasping for air.

Stiles grabbed the front of the man's shirt. He hurled him across the space, slamming him against the wall before throwing him to the floor. He pinned the man down on the ground, clenching his fist and slamming it into the man's jaw. There was a loud crack as the man's head jerked to the side.

The man's eyes fluttered shut, his limbs falling limp by his sides.

Stiles didn't get time to relax; someone grabbed him from behind, their arm hooked around Stiles' throat as they pulled him back into a headlock.

Stiles pulled at their arm, but they didn't budge.

He stomped his foot down on their foot and slammed his elbow into their gut.

They stumbled backwards.

Stiles turned on them and swung his fist into the mercenary's jugular, leaving them gasping for air.

Stiles spun around, swinging his leg up and slamming the heel of his boot into the side of their face.

The mercenary fell back against the wall, their body slumped forward; unconscious.

Stiles scavenged their weapons, stepped past them, and hurried down the flight of stairs that led to the lower level.

He crouched as he crept towards the broken wall. He drew his gun from its holster and quietly cocked it, peering over the jagged bricks as he watched the men walk towards the boat.

"Get all of this on the boat, now!" the guard shouted.

A few men stepped forward, carrying canisters of gasoline and crates of guns and ammunition.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, steadying himself.

A hand fell on his shoulder.

Stiles spun around, his elbow raised and ready to swing.

Derek grabbed his arm and fought back.

"It's me," he hissed.

Stiles let out his breath, his face twisted in confusion and his voice low as he asked, "How did you get here?"

"I'll explain later, you need to see this," Derek said as he opened his camera and rewound the footage.

"Now's not the best time," Stiles whispered as he glanced over the bricks at the men loading their cargo onto the ship. He shuffled forwards, rising to his feet but Derek grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back down.

"What are you doing?" Stiles hissed, fighting to keep his voice low.

 

Derek used one hand to pin him against the wall while he used the other to hold the camera in front of him. "I mean it, Stiles," Derek insisted. "You _really_ need to seed this."

"Derek-"

"Just watch," Derek interrupted, holding the camera closer.

Stiles heeded, using his free hand to steady the camera as he watched the reply of the footage.

He saw a helicopter coming to rest on an open space across the bay, two figures walking towards it. The camera zoomed in on them and Stiles could make out an old man with a thinning halo of white hair and a steely expression.

"Gerard," Stiles muttered.

"That's not all," Derek whispered.

A young woman stepped into the shot, a thick braid of sandy-blonde hair falling down her back. The wind stirred by the helicopter blades made her open brown leather jacket billow out around her slender form as she stepped forward.

Gerard climbed into the helicopter, turning back to hold his hand out to the young lady.

She glanced over her shoulder, revealing her face to the camera.

Stiles felt his hear skip a beat, his gut twisting in knots as the name fell past his lips.

"Erica?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GORE WARNING!  
> I know I've tagged it above, but I just thought I'd warn any readers who don't want to read gore that this chapter has a bit in it. If you don't want to read it, stop just after the bridge scene and skip forward until the paragraph break. If you can stomach it, I'd suggest reading it because it is a little bit of a clue as to what lies ahead in a few chapters.

“Erica?” Stiles gasped.

“She’s alive.”

“Huh,” was all Stiles managed to say.

“I don’t know about this, Stiles,” Derek muttered. “I mean, how much do you trust her?”

“I’d trust Erica with my life,” Stiles answered.

“Stiles, they’re not exactly holding her at gunpoint,” Derek pointed out.

There was a quiet rumble behind them.

Stiles handed the video camera back to Derek and peered around the edge of the wall. He watched as the boat drove away from the harbour, the small engine humming as it drew further and further away.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and reached into the small leather pouch of his belt. He drew out a map and unfurled it.

“Erica may be a lot of things but she’s not a back-stabber,” Stiles replied as he smoothed the map out across the ground. “Now, which way were they headed?”

“North,” Derek answered, pointing to the top section of the map. “Towards the mountains.”

“Okay.” Stiles studied the map. He pointed at a small illustration. “The monastery, that’s where they must be going. Let’s go.”

Stiles folded up the map and slid it back into the leather pouch.

“What if it turns out she’s working with them?” Derek asked as he rose to his feet.

“Then we either rescue her or beat the crap out of her,” Stiles said dryly. He turned away from Derek and, under his breath, muttered, “Hell, I might just beat the crap out of her anyway.”

He made his way back through the customs house, crossing the foyer over to where a flight of stairs led down to an archway which opened up to the outside. They stepped out into the courtyard, making their way down the paths that snaked between the aging buildings and toppled ruins.

Stiles stopped before the edge of a plateau.

He glanced down over the edge, judging the distance. He sat down on the ridge, his legs hanging over the edge as he positioned himself and dropped down. He looked back up at the ridge.

“Your go,” he called to Derek.

Derek shook his head. “No way.”

“Toss down your camera,” Stiles instructed. “I’ll catch it and then help you down.”

Derek hesitated but did as he was told. He held the camera out, holding it as low as he could before letting it drop into Stiles’ hands. He sat down on the edge of the plateau, watching as Stiles set the camera aside safely before coming back to help Derek.

He held his arms out, ready to catch Derek.

“I’ve got this,” Derek called down from the ridge.

Stiles shrugged and stepped back.

Derek dropped down from the ledge, landing with a feline-like grace. He straightened his back and dusted himself off, glancing up at Stiles who was staring back at him; his jaw slack and his eyes a mix of shock and admiration.

“Let’s keep going,” Derek said as he retrieved his camera.

They crossed the open space over to the frail rope bridge that stretched across the gorge. The rocky walls of the chasm were smeared with ash, fragments of splintered wood sticking out like barbs. Far below, a stream coursed through the ruins, the gushing water roaring beneath them.

Derek knelt down by the edge of the chasm, filming the ruins.

Stiles started across the rickety bridge, his feet testing each plank as he slowly crept forward.

“How does something like this happen?” Derek asked, holding his camera low as he followed Stiles and filmed the crossing of the bridge. His glimmering eyes were focused on the darkened ruins below them.

“See those scorch marks?” Stiles pointed down at the charred wood and piles of ash. “Somebody packed this place with enough gunpowder to blow it wide open.”

Stiles took a step forward, the wooden board shrieking beneath his feet.

His heart skipped a beat as he shuffled forward.

“Watch where you step,” he called over his shoulder. “Some of these boards are really falling apart.”

Derek took a step forward.

There was a loud crack as the wood splintered beneath him.

Stiles spun around.

“Derek!”

He lunged forward and reached for Derek as the man fell through the gap.

His fingers brushed against Derek’s arm, his hand tensing as he grabbed a hold of his wrist.

Stiles tensed his jaw, his other hand grabbing at the wooden boards as he tried to pull Derek up.

He felt his fingers slip, the man sliding through his grip.

“Derek, I can’t hold on!” Stiles shouted over the roaring water below. “Give me your other hand!”

Derek glanced down at the video camera in his other hand.

“Derek,” Stiles called. “You have to let it go.”

Derek bit into his lip.

“It’s not worth dying over!” Stiles shouted.

“Damn it!” Derek swore.

He let go of the camera, watching as it fell into the ruins below. It shattered over a wooden platform before falling into the gushing foam of the racing stream. He reached up with his other hand and held onto Stiles’ arm.

Stiles pulled him upwards until Derek could reach the edge of the bridge.

Derek reached out and grabbed onto the ropes, holding onto them as Stiles pulled him the rest of the way onto the bridge.

Derek instinctively grabbed at Stiles’ shirt, letting the young man hold him close.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, his wide eyes staring at the churning water below and his shoulders heaving with shaking breaths.

“It’s okay,” Stiles whispered. “You’re alright.”

Stiles waited until Derek calmed down before helping him back to his feet and shuffling the rest of the way across the bridge.

Derek set his foot down on the solid earth and let out a sigh of relief. He stumbled over to a nearby rock and sat down. His hands were shaking and his breathing shallow.

“You okay?” Stiles asked.

Derek nodded, his eyes staring down at his trembling hands as he balled them into fists; his rigid knuckles white as they pressed against his skin.

Stiles crouched before him, setting his hands atop of Derek’s and looking into his eyes as he calmly said, “It’s okay. You’re safe. Take a few deep breaths.”

Derek closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding his breath before breathing out. His thundering heartbeat slowed and he calmed down. After a minute, he opened his eyes and looked at Stiles

“Where do we go now?”

Stiles pointed as the coursing river a few meters ahead of them. “That river ought to take us right up to the monastery, we just need to follow the bank upriver.”

Derek didn’t reply, he kept his eyes trained on the coursing stream.

“Derek, I understand if you can’t do this,” Stiles said softly. “If you come with me, I can protect you but I can’t comfort you. And if something like that-” He gestured over his shoulder at the broken bridge. “-happens again, I might not be able to catch you next time. If you come with me, I need you to be able to fight. I need you to be able to save yourself. If you can’t do that, I understand. But if you can’t, then I need you to stay here. I’ll go find out what’s going on with Erica and then I’ll come back for you.”

“No,” Derek muttered, gently pulling his hands away from Stiles’ hold. His cold composure returned as he said, “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Stiles nodded and rose to his feet.

Derek stood up and took the lead, walking over to the cobblestone path that ran along the coursing river.

Stiles watched him for a minute, thoughts racing through his mind. He followed Derek up the small incline that led away from the ruins of buildings and back into the dense labyrinth of jungle.

“Would you slow down?” Stiles shouted after him, kicking up his heels and jogging after. “Some of Argent’s men could be up ahead.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about them,” Derek called back, slowing slightly so Stiles could catch up. “Argent probably pulled his men back to guard the monastery.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t proceed with caution,” Stiles replied. “Donovan and his men are still out there.”

“You’ve already taken down about half his men,” Derek said.

“That’s not the point. These guys may be idiots but they are professional killers,” Stiles pointed out, a hint of agitation adding an edge to his voice. “It’s their _profession_.”

Derek bit into his lip, stopping himself from arguing. He turned around and took a step forward.

Stiles let out a frustrated sigh and kicked up his followed. He reached the crest of the hill and froze, his heart skipping a beat as he noticed Derek had stopped moving.

“Derek?” he called, his voice quiet and strained with growing anxiety.

“You, um… You need to see this,” Derek called over his shoulder, not turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles crept closer, his gut twisting and churning as he stepped over to the man’s side. His eyes fell on the horrific sight before them.

A body lay limp across a woven board, blood soaked spikes jutting through his flesh. Streams of crimson blood coursed over the mans body, soaking his clothes and pooling on the ground beneath him. His face was contorted into an expression of horror and fear, his jaw hanging loose and his clouded lifeless eyes staring into the darkness beyond the trees.

Swarming flies buzzed around the body, drawn to the rancid stench of copper blood.

Strips of flesh had been torn away from his body, his gut gouged open and his organs exposed.

“So… what?” Derek asked. “The Spanish booby-trapped the island to protect their gold?”

Stiles frowned, taking a step closer to the pointed spikes that impaled the body. The shards of blood-soaked aluminium gleamed as they caught the light. Beneath the blood were fragments of paint that flaked away from the metal: red, grey and white.

“This wasn’t made by the Spanish,” he said. “Look at the spikes.”

Derek stepped closer to look. “That’s… They’re made from the wreckage of out plane. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone set up traps like this when their own men are crawling all over the island?”

“They wouldn’t,” Stiles muttered. His eyes were drawn to the pooling blood that seeped into the dirt, turning the dust to mud. Blood and water pooled in the impressions of elongated feet and claw-like nails that had dug into the mud. “Something’s been here since the trap was sprung.”

“Something?” Derek repeated.

Stiles paused. He rose to his feet and slowly looked around the foliage.

“Do you hear that?” Stiles asked, his voice quiet.

Derek frowned in confusion. “Hear what?”

“Nothing.” Stiles whispered. “Absolutely nothing.” He slowly reached up and drew his pistol from the holster strapped to his chest. He quietly cocked it, the click echoing through the silence of the jungle. “We’re being watched.”

“Watched?” Derek gasped, his eyes widening with alarm and filling with fear as he looked around.

“You know what? It’s probably nothing,” Stiles said, keeping his voice quiet as he tried to sound reassuring. He holstered his gun and stepped away from the impaled corpse. “Let’s just get out of here before whatever was chewing on his guy comes back.”

Stiles backed away, his eyes searching the shadows of the dense trees. He reached out for Derek, his fingers gently brushing against the man’s arm, encouraging him to follow.

 

 

They made their way up to the monastery, following the path of marble stairs that were cut into the hillside. Their boots scuffed at the cobblestone path that was overrun with moss, warped by tree roots and obscured by low shrubs with outstretched leathery leaves. They made their way up to the front gate of the large monastery, ducking behind two large pillars and hiding in the shadows as they looked down at the men who moved back and forth before the stone walls and heavy iron gate.

“Argent can’t be far off if he left his attack dogs at the gate,” Stiles muttered, his eyes focused on the patrolling guards.

“Argent?” Derek asked.

“Gerard Argent,” Stiles explained. “The psychotic asshole father of Christopher Argent – the man who took me in.” Stiles turned to look at Derek as he whispered, “These guys aren’t like Donovan’s men; they’re highly trained professionals. I need you to stay here. I’ll take them out.”

Derek nodded.

“I mean it,” Stiles insisted. “Stay here.”

Stiles turned away from him and crept forward, staying low and out of sight as he snuck over to one of the large ammunition crates. He watched as one of the guards pulled out a walkie-talkie.

“Go ahead,” he said in a gruff voice.

“I want the library secured,” Gerard said. “Don’t let them get to Reyes.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answered before lowing the walkie-talkie. He turned to the other guard, leaning back against the ammunition crate Stiles crouched behind and said, “They’ve got that girl locked up in the east side of the complex. I don’t even know why they brought her along, the bitch can’t be trusted.”

The other guard turned away.

Stiles leapt to his feet, clamped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him back.

The man flailed about slightly as his body fell back over an ammunition crate.

Stiles balled his fist and slammed it into the man's face.

The mercenary’s body fell still and Stiles dragged him over the crate, lying him down in the concealing shadows. He picked up the man's gun, shrugging the rifle’s strap over his shoulder and grabbing the ammunition off the man's body.

Stiles stayed low to the ground as he crept over to the next cate.

The other guard turned around and realised that the other man was missing.

Stiles lunged forward, his fist slamming into the man’s face.

The man staggered back but regained his footing. He raised his gun and aimed it at Stiles.

Stiles moved quickly, taking a step forward and slamming his fist into the underside of the man’s wrist.

The gun fell from the man’s hold. Stiles caught it by the barrel and swung it, the butt hitting the man’s face with a painful crack.

Stiles tossed the gun aside and grabbed the man’s shoulders, pulling him downwards as Stiles swung his knee upwards and slammed it into the man’s gut. He pushed the man back and swung his fist into his jaw, bones shattering beneath his knuckles as the man was knocked aside.

The mercenary stumbled backwards and collapsed to the ground, unmoving and unconscious.

Stiles straightened his back and steadied his breathing. He crouched down and grabbed the walkie-talkie and clipped it onto his belt before pulling the handgun from the unconscious guard’s holster. He checked the clip of bullets and loaded it into the gun rising to his feet and stepping over to Derek’s side. He held the gun out for Derek.

Derek took it with a muttered thank you.

They made their way towards the large archway that led into the small courtyard. The large pillars that framed the doorway were overrun with vines, concealing the carved marble as they stepped into the cool shadows. They made their way into the courtyard. The pathways were lined with smooth marble half-walls, framing the intersecting paths and the large fountain that sat in the centre.

The cold air pricked at Stiles’ skin, covering him in goosebumps as he made his way up towards the fountain. The old marble basin was cracked and covered in seams of black rot that filled the chips and crevices. The water inside had frosted over, the surface was misted like fog on a mirror but thick and back like a sludgy swamp. Stiles stifled his gag as he turned around, looking about the shadows that lingered in the surroundings walkways and beneath the large trees that had grown through the ruins.

“I have a bad feeling about this place,” Derek admitted, looking around the courtyard.

“Me too,” Stiles whispered, drawing his pistol form its holster and tightening his grip on it. “Let’s just find Erica and get the hell out of here.”

Stiles turned and made his way along the pathway that branched off to the right. He made his way up the small staircase, stepping into the lingering shadows.

The arching walls of the hallway loomed over him like something out of a nightmare. The large pillars and arching framework were made of chipped marble or rotting wood, threatening to collapse on him at any time.

Stiles felt his heart slamming against his ribs as he put one foot in front of the other. He crept down the hallway, the darkness opening up into a large room. There was a large hole in the far wall, the bricks pulled from their place and leaving the room exposed to the outside world. Thin streams of light filtered through the canopy of the trees outside, bleeding into the room and lighting his surroundings. In the dim light, Stiles could see the stairs ahead of him, one flight leading down to the lower level and another flight leading to what had once been an upstairs area; both broken. The stones had fallen away from the stairs, lying in piles of rubble in the shadows below.

The room below had no doors and the higher level had a wooden floor that had rotted and broken away decades ago.

Stiles looked around, his eyes focused on the far door of the higher level.

“I’m going to climb around to that far door,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Derek. He slid his gun back into the holster strapped to his chest. “I want you to head back down to the courtyard and wait.”

“You’re not leaving me behind again,” Derek objected.

“No, I’m not,” Stiles assured him. “I’m just going to find another way for you to get in.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed, turning around and making his way back through the shadows.

Stiles climbed up the broken staircase that had once led to the higher level and leapt to the far wall, grabbing onto the ledge of protruding bricks. He shuffled along the wall, the rough grains of the bricks scratching at his fingers as he pulled himself along.

As he approached the wooden platform he swung his legs and threw himself forward. He grabbed the splintered wood and pulled himself onto the platform. The wooden floorboards were buckled and withered with age, creaking and moaning beneath his feet. He cautiously crept towards the door.

He stepped out onto a mezzanine, the smooth tiles falling away in sections.

He dropped down onto the lower level, landing with a painful thud. He rose to his feet and dusted himself off, looking around the room. The dark brick walls were lined with stained glass windows, most of them shattered and leaving only the warped metal framework that had once outlined the design and others left with glass shards that had faded with exposure.

He crossed the room to the large mahogany doors and tugged at the heavy steel lock that chained the door shut. He took a few steps back, drew his gun and fired, sparks flying about as the lock broke open.

He pulled the chain away from the handles and pulled the large mahogany doors open.

Derek was standing just outside the door. He smiled when he saw Stiles, a sight that made Stile’s chest tighten.

Stiles hid his own smile as he turned and made his way down the large hall. He crossed over to where a heavy iron door divided the rooms.

Stiles stepped over to the winch and began to pull at the handles, slowly hoisting the door.

The chains rattled and groaned.

The handles slipped and the door slammed down.

Derek fanned the plume of dust out of his face and stepped over to Stiles’ side. “Here, I’ll hold that while you brace the gate open.”

Stiles nodded and Stiles stepped over to the door.

Derek pulled at the lever. The rattling chains coiled around the barrel of the winch, groaning as they hoisted the gate higher and higher.

Stiles stepped forward, positioning himself beneath the door.

“Ready?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, just let it go gently,” Stiles instructed.

Derek did his best to do so. He let go of the handles and the door dropped. Stiles grunted in pain as the heavy iron gate fell onto his shoulder.

He held it open as Derek ducked under the gate.

“You good?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah.”

He let go of the door, rolling aside as the heavy irone gate slammed shut. He rose to his feet, rubbing his shoulder.

“Stiles,” Derek started softly, stepping closer and gently touching Stiles’ upper arm.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said dismissively, trying to ignore the pooling tides of worry that filled Derek’s eyes. He turned and looked at the large building that loomed over them. He nodded towards it. “That must be the library.”

Derek turned to look.

“But we’re not going to waltz right through the front door,” Stiles pointed out. “We’re going to have to find another way in.”

“What about that walkway?” Derek asked, pointing up at the broken ledges that led over to the higher level of the library.

“Good idea,” Stiles said. He made his way up the marble staircase that was centred in the middle of the walkway that bridged the eastern buildings to the rest of the monastery. He made his way along the footpath, staying close to the pillars and walls and skirting around the sections where the stones had fallen away.

He made his way over to the door, noticing the heavy steel chain that was coiled around the handles and locked in place.

“Damn it,” he hissed.

“Can’t you shoot it open?” Derek asked, keeping his voice quiet.

“Not without alerting everyone inside,” Stiles answered, already looking around for an alternative path. “And I’d pick the lock, but pulling the chains off would make noise. This way.”

He climbed over the railing and onto the narrow ridge in the brickwork. He hugged the wall as he shuffled along and made his way over to the small balcony by one of the windows. He climbed over the carved railing and crouched low as he crept into the library. Derek followed, crouching beside Stiles.

They stood on the elevated mezzanine, looking down over the library. Below them, Stiles could see Erica standing by an old mahogany desk that was littered with pieces of paper and old books. Before the desk was two small faded-red armchairs, in which one of the arm guards were slumped, half-listening to Erica’s story while the other guard paced back and forth between the old fireplace and the end of the desk.

“So, I met this girl who worked this little bar in the Philippines,” Erica said. She let out a dramatic sigh as she smiled. “She had a smile that could melt your heart and a body that’d leave you begging for more. And when she kissed you, you’d just melt.”

Stiles rolled his eyes; he had heard this story many times before.

“What the hell is taking you so long?” one of the mercenaries growled, interrupting Erica.

The smile fell from her face, her expression warped into one of cold rage. “Well,” she said dryly, “if you haven’t noticed, half of these books are rotten, faded or just old. Not to mention they’re all written in Spanish.”

“Well, you had better hurry up,” the guard growled. “The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Erica opened her mouth to retort when the pacing guard turned around, his eyes falling on Stiles.

“Up there!”

“Ah crap,” Stiles whispered. “Move!” he shouted, shoving Derek behind a pillar before rolling aside.

The air filled with the sound of gunfire, the bullets chipping away at the pillars.

“Stay here,” Stiles instructed as he drew his gun and cocked it. He leapt out from their cover, raised his gun and fired.

The bullet tore through one of the guards, his body jerking backwards as he dropped his gun and collapsed to the floor.

Stiles dove behind a pillar, bullets raining around him. He looked across at Derek who sat behind one of the pillars, his shirt covered in marble dust and chips of stone.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and stepped out from behind his pillar, his gun raised.

He watched as Erica lunged at the guard, grabbing his AK-47 and wrenching it from his grip. She slammed the butt of the gun into the man’s jaw and knocked him down. She set the gun down on the table and turned to look at Stiles.

“It’s about time you showed up,” she called.

Stiles stepped over to Derek’s side, dusting down his shoulders and helping him to his feet. Stiles lowered himself onto the edge of the mezzanine where the railing had broken away and dropped down onto the lower level of the library.

Derek followed him.

Stiles kept his gun in his hand and his cold glare locked on Erica. “You’re looking pretty good for a corpse.”

Erica ignored his comment, glancing over Stiles’ shoulder at Derek.

“So you brought _him_ after all?” she asked with a hint of bitterness.

“‘Him’?” Derek repeated.

“If it wasn’t for Derek, you couldn’t be getting rescued right now,” Stiles pointed out, anger adding a harsh edge to his voice.

“If this is a rescue,” Derek added.

“What the hell does that mean?” Erica growled.

“You’ve got to admit, Erica, this looks a little shady,” Stiles said, his glare unwavering. “I mean, you tipped those guys off and now you miraculously show up alive after I saw Argent put a bullet through your chest.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” Erica argued. “I screwed up. Gerard had a contract out on me and I needed to buy some time. I didn't realise they'd try and track us.”

“We would have been heading home with the treasure by now if you had just kept your damn mouth shut,” Stiles snapped.

“And you might've thought of checking for a pulse before running off and leaving me for dead,” Erica retorted.

Stiles turned away, holstering his gun and muttering something under his breath.

Erica paused, drawing in a deep breath and calming herself.

“Look,” she said softly, “none of that matters now.”

“And, exactly how is it that you’re standing here, alive and breathing?” Derek asked.

Erica reached into her jacket pocket and drew out a small leather notebook. She tossed it across the marble desk for the two of them to see.

Derek picked up the book, his eyes widening as he saw the bullet hole that had torn through the cover and the bound pages. He held it up for Stiles to see.

Stiles let out a small chuckle as he muttered, “No way. Drake took a bullet for you?”

“Still hurt like hell,” Erica muttered, rubbing at her bruised collarbone. “But at least I’m still alive.”

Derek handed the journal back to Erica.

“Anyway,” Erica continued, “once they realised I wasn't dead, I convinced Gerard that they'd never find the treasure without me. So, he brought me along and I've been trying to mislead them ever since, waiting for you to show up.”

“So where are they now?” Derek asked.

“They’re chasing a little red herring I sent them on,” Erica said. “They’re on the other side of the monastery.” She began flipping through the pages of Drake’s journal until she found what she was looking for. “Drake had it all figured out,” she said. She held the journal out for Stile to take, showing him the illustration of a heart penetrated by two keys, made to look like the Jolly Roger. “That's the symbol the Spanish used to mark their secret vaults. The treasure is hidden right here in this monastery. Find the symbol...”

“…and we find the vault,” Stiles finished.

“We have everything we need right here. All the clues to take us right to the treasure.” She looked at Stiles, her eyes sparkling as she said, “We can do this.”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh. “Fine.”

“Yes,” Erica said excitedly.

“ _But_ ,” Stiles added, holding up his hand to silence her. “We’re getting you a Kevlar vest at the earliest opportunity.”

Erica pouted, slumping her shoulders dramatically, but after a second she agreed.

Stiles began to flip through the pages of the journal, reading the scrawls of ink that were spread across the pages.

Erica glanced over her shoulder at Derek. She took a step closer to Stiles and whispered, “What are we going to about him? I mean, he isn’t exactly made for our kind of work. Is there somewhere—?”

“Don't even think about it,” he warned her, not bothering to keep his voice low. “He stays with us. And if you try anything, I ought to warn you, he's got a mean right hook.”

Erica glanced over at Derek who was looking back at her.

The corners of his mouth quirked up as a mischievous smile played across his lips.

Erica nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles stepped away from her, making his way over to where the library opened up to a large room. Around him were four pillars with statues atop of them; an angel with outspread wings, a phoenix, a Pegasus, and a chimera.

Stiles flipped through the pages of the journal, the edges thumbed smooth and the illustrations and script broken by the bullet hole that had torn through the journal. He flicked through the pages until he found what he was looking for, a page with the illustrations of the statues. Beneath each of them was a scrawl of neat writing, a name: the angel was Matthew, the phoenix was John, the Pegasus was Luke and the chimera was Mark. On the next page a compass was drawn, matching the mosaic compass that lay in on the floor. Above each point was a name, rotating counter clockwise with Matthew starting on the northern point.

Stiles closed the book and slid it into his back pocket. He stepped over to one of the pillars, grabbed the craved wood and pulled himself atop of it. He looked at the phoenix with its head lowered and its wings unfurled slightly; John.

“East,” he reminded himself, glancing over his shoulder at the mosaic compass on the floor. He turned the statue, listening to the loud rumble of turning gears as the statue rotated atop of the podium.

He stepped back slightly, skirting around the statue and stepping over to the edge of the pillar. He leapt across to the next one, his body slamming into the edge with a pained grunt. He pulled himself atop of the pillar and looked at the detailed marble statue of a Pegasus; Luke.

“South,” Stiles muttered, grabbing a hold of the statue and rotating it until it faced the right direction. The thunking gears fell still and quiet returned to the library.

He glanced over at the next podium, the statue of a praying angel with outspread wings; Matthew. It was already in position, facing North.

Stiles jumped down from the pillar he was standing on and crossed over to the Chimera.

“Mark,” he said to himself. “West.”

He climbed onto the pillar and took a hold of the carve marble, carefully turning it until it faced west.

There was a loud rumble and a shril screech as one of the old oach bookshelves began to move, turnign at an angle that revealed the concealed doorway in the wall.

“Whoa,” they gasped in unison.

Stiles jumped down from the pillar and crossed over to the opening to the secret passage. He pulled his torch from his belt and looked into the darkness. Below him was a descending staircase.

“What do you think is down there?” Derek asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Stiles said.

He made his way down the stairs and into a dull room that was covered in cobwebs and blankets of dust. The walls were surrounded by shelves that were scattered with old books. Some were lined up along the shelves, others were stacked and many had fallen over or lay tilted against others. Those that were bound with velvet-soft felt-covers were musky and rotting and the leather-bound journals were warped and fading with age.

“Another library?” Erica said, disheartened.

Stiles walked over to the statue that sat on the far wall. “This isn’t right,” Stiles said. “The torch should be upside down; the inverted torch leads to the land of the dead.”

“Maybe we should stay away from ‘the land of the dead’,” Erica offered.

Stiles ignored her comment and stepped forward. He grabbed the torch of the statue and turned it around until it sat upside down. There was a loud groan as the statue slid aside and the brick wall rose to reveal the dark depths of a catacomb.

He stepped past the doorway and shone his torch down into the darkness.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Erica and Derek. “Okay, you two sit tight. I’m going to check this out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Derek objected. “No way. You’re not going out there alone.”

“Gerard’s men are swarming all over this place,” Erica said in agreement.

“Yeah, and one person will make a lot less noise than three,” Stiles pointed out.

Eric opened her mouth to argue but closed it again and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles assured them. “And you two will be safe here. We’re the only ones who know about this room.”

“Okay, fine,” Erica begrudgingly agreed. “But turn your walkie-talkie onto channel thirteen – they don’t use that one. Keep us posted.”

“Got it,” Stiles agreed, turning the dial on the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

“Close the door and shut off this room,” he instructed.

Erica nodded and made her way back up to the top of the stairs, pushing the door back in place and fortifying the room.

Stiles turned to step back into the secret passage when Derek’s voice halted him. “Stiles…”

He turned to look at the man, watching how his bright eyes darkened with worry.

Derek’s lips trembled around unspoken words. When he found his voice again, he whispered, “Be careful.”

Stiles smirked at him. “I always am.”

As he turned around, Stiles slammed his head into the overhanging brickwork of the entrance. He froze and bit into his lip to stop himself form swearing. He held his hand up over his shoulder and said, “That doesn’t count.”

Behind him, he could hear Erica giggle.

Stiles shook his head and stepped into the catacombs.

The heavy door slid shut, immersing him in the darkness.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and turned to look at the narrow tunnel that stretched out before him.

“Okay,” he said quietly to himself. “Let’s get going.”


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles walked on through the catacombs, his nose burning with the stench of mildew that grew between the large bricks. Rivulets of water streamed down the large grey stones, glistening as they caught the light of his torch.

He set one foot in front of the other as he made his way through the labyrinth of dark tunnels and crumbling walkways. The arching hallways opened up to a large room, the walkways narrowing as Stiles made his way out across the rafters. The thin stone walkways shook beneath his feet as he crossed over a large room, the old stone floors lined with mahogany pews and ornate fixtures that were painted gold and covered in melted candlewax.

On either side of the rafters were large brass bells.

“Hang on,” Stiles muttered to himself as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out Drake’s Journal. He flipped through the pages until he found the illustrations of the bells and read, “‘Two bells resound in perfect harmony’.”

Stiles glanced down at his feet, pocketing the journal and picking up two broken chunks of stone. He bounced the stone up and down in his hand, feeling the weight of the rock. He turned and hurled it at one of the bells.

The stone stuck the brass and rang the bell, the resonating sound rolling through his chest. The brass bell swung, the hammer inside swinging and tolling the church bell.

He turned and threw the other stone at the second bell.

The stone stuck the weathered brass bell, the deep ring echoing throughout the confined space.

The resonating sound began to mingle, the harmonic ringing filling the space. It was interrupted by a loud rumble as the ground beneath his feet began to shake and the bricks on the far wall began to draw back, revealing a secret doorway.

Stiles crossed the narrow pathway over to the entrance. He stepped into the dark doorway and saw a ladder that descended into a large room. He began to climb down the latter, muttering to himself; “‘We have everything we need right here. All the clues to take us right to the treasure. We can do this’,” he quoted Erica mockingly. “And how the hell does she think we’re going to get the statue out of here?”

Stiles dropped down into the cavern below, landing in the shallow puddle of water that gathered in the sloping floor. He waded through the shallow water until he heard the trailing sound of voices from the rooms above. He stepped out of the water and skirted along the walls of the narrow hallway, staying on dry land as he moved towards the voices.

There was a small metal grate in the ceiling, through which Stiles could see the room above.

He drew his pistol from the holster strapped to his chest and quietly cocked it.

“This is completely unacceptable,” Gerard growled, his deep voice echoing down into the dark hallway.

“What do you expect from me, Argent?” Donovan snapped. “My men are getting massacred.”

Gerard let out a low chuckle. “I find it hard to believe that one man could wipe out your entire crew. Stilinski may be good, but he’s not that good.”

“It’s not just Stilinski,” Donovan argued. “I’m telling you, this island is cursed.”

“Enough,” Gerard said firmly, silencing the young man. “Take your men and go.”

“You can’t cut me loose!” Donovan argued. “You owe me a share of the gold!”

“Your share, Mr Donati, was contingent upon you doing what I requested,” Gerard replied, his voice level and cold. “You assured me that Stilinski was captured and the was island secure. You have delivered neither of those things.”

“That’s bullshit,” Donovan seethed. “This is bullshit and you know it.”

“We’re done here, Mr Donati,” Gerard said with finality. He drew his gun and cocked it, the loud click ending any arguments. 

“Tia kamu. Mati aja lo,” Donovan hissed under his breath as he turned and stormed out of the room. Beyond the stone walls, the sound of his voice trailed through the air as he shouted to his men.

Gerard turned to the head mercenary. “Remind me, why did I hire him?”

“You wanted someone cheap,” the man replied. He paused for a minute then added, “…and expendable.”

Gerard shrugged slightly. “I guess you get what you pay for.” He narrowed his glare on the man. “So, Jones, is it worth paying you?”

“The vault's here. I'm sure of it,” Jones replied. “If Reyes can be trusted—”

“Which she can’t,” Gerard interrupted.

“She knows we’ll kill her if she’s lying,” Jones said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Gerard replied. “She knows we'll kill her once we find the treasure. She has no incentive to tell the truth.”

“I just need a little more time,” Jones said.

Gerard let out a heavy sigh and stalked across the room. He slumped down in a small armchair. “Chasing this treasure seems to be more trouble than it’s probably worth.” He paused for a moment, reaching out to the small table beside him and picking up a small glass of whiskey. “Fine, you have until sun down. If Reyes doesn’t give us anything useful by then, we’ll kill her.”

“And Stilinski?”

Gerard stared into the swirling golden liquor that filled his glass. His voice was cold, void of all emotion except the edge of anger as he said, “Shoot on sight.”

Stile swallowed hard. He shuffled along the edge of the streaming water, making his way down the dark hallway. The hallway ended at a ladder that led up towards an old iron gate. Stiles climbed up the ladder and pushed open the rusting bars; pulling himself out of the darkness and into the ruins of a courtyard that overlooked the rest of the monastery.

The space was full of overgrown grass and clusters of flowering clover. From the elevated platform, he could see the broken walkways and crumbling ruins of buildings that filled the monastery.

He turned around, behind him was a small walkway that opened up onto the courtyard by the entrance, the old fountain sitting in the middle of the square.

“Stiles?”

He leapt out of his skin. His heart slamming against his ribs.

“Stiles, do you read me?” Erica called again, her voice crackling slightly.

He reached for the walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt and held the button down. “Yeah, I hear you.” He stepped over onto the walkway, leaning against the old marble railing slightly and looking down at the fountain as he said, “I’m going in circles out here.”

“Well, your boy toy and I have been reading some of the old books down here. From what we can tell, it looks like there’s some kind of secret gallery at the top of the church. Can you get there?”

Stiles looked across the monastery. “I think so, yeah.”

“Alright, give us a call if you find anything,” Erica replied.

“And, Erica?”

“Yes?”

“Derek is not my boy toy,” Stiles said firmly.

“Can I have him then?” Erica asked teasingly.

“No,” Stiles answered sharply. “And stay in that room; Gerard’s given the order to kill you if your directions turn up nothing.”

“Okay,” Erica said, resigned. “Watch your back, Stiles.”

“You too,” Stiles replied.

He turned the volume on the walkie-talkie down and clipped it back onto his belt. He crossed the small courtyard, staying low beneath the stone half-walls. He crept through the large arching doorway and made his way through a magnificent hall.

He stood atop the landing, broken staircases framing the doorways and leading down into the large room, his eyes falling on the man before him; a mercenary dressed in heavy black armour and slouching back against a broken pillar.

Stiles crept forward, his feet landing among the rubble like a tiger through the jungle’s undergrowth. He lunged forward, clamping his hand around the guard’s mouth and pulling him back over the pillar.

The man thrashed about, his hands clawing at Stiles’ arms but Stiles’ grip didn’t weaken.

Stiles gently shushed him, fighting back against the man’s movements.

Eventually the mercenary’s eyes fluttered shut and his body fell slack in Stiles’ arms.

“Sweet dreams,” Stiles whispered as he laid the man down on the tiles.

He made his way across the elevated level.

The golden tiles had faded and were discoloured with spears of green, blue, orange and black, but the brilliance of the building had not faded. The finely sculpted railings of the bannisters and the chiselled pillars remained like the skeleton of what had once been, the floor falling away in patches.

Stiles leapt across one of the hold, stumbling slightly as he landed on the other side. He braced himself and leapt across the next hole. He slammed into the bricks on the far side, his fingers digging into the grooves of the tiles to stop himself from falling. He pulled himself upright and continued on towards the large doorway that lead out the back of the hall.

He skidded to a halt, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down at the crumbled ruins of stone beneath him, the jagged edges sticking up the jutting bluffs of a craggy shoreline.

“Aw crap,” Stiles muttered as he looked down at the broken walkway and back up at the dark stone walls of the church that stood before him, just out of his reach.

His eyes drifted across the surrounding walls, plotting a trail through the brickwork and ledges.

He shimmied over to the edge of the doorway and reached out for the thick marble slab that formed the nearby window ledge. He kicked off the platform and swung onto the ledge. The toes of his boots scuffed the stone walls as he shuffled along the windowsill. He reached out and grabbed a hold of one of the large stones that jutted out of the wall.

It wobbled slightly in his hand.

“Oh shit,” he hissed under his breath as he kicked off the wall swung in the brick. The stone gave way beneath his hand, crumbling mortar cascading down the stone wall like a land slide as the brick came loose. He leapt to the next ledge, his fingers digging into the rough stone

He cursed under his breath as the rough grains scratched at his fingers.

He drew in a deep breath and pushed his body forward, leaping to the next brick and then the next until he had skirted around the dark grey walls and over to the thick vines that clung to the church walls.

He grabbed a hold of the vine and pulled himself up towards the shattered stained-glass window. He dug the toes of his boots into the bricks and climbed into the old church, the dark shadows washing over him with cool relief.

But the relief was short-lived; the quiet was broken by a man shouting. “Hey!”

Stiles’ eyes flew up.

Two guards stood before him.

“Aw crap,” he gasped, diving for the nearby pillar as the men drew their guns.

Stiles pulled his handgun from the holster and cocked it. He stepped out from behind the pillar, aimed and fired, the bullets ripping through the men’s shoulders; missing the thick Kevlar vests and tearing through flesh and bone.

They collapsed to the floor.

Stiles holstered his gun and stepped over to their side, crouching down to collect their ammunition and kick aside their guns.

He straightened and looked around the church. He stood atop a small landing, below him were the rich mahogany pews and ornate fixtures covered in dripping candlewax, and on the far wall, above the alter, was a stained-glass mural; the vibrant red and gold depicting a hear pierced by two golden keys.

“That’s got to be it,” Stiles muttered to himself as he stepped forward.

He looked about the church, noticing the two golden keys fixed to the walls either side of the church hall, their golden paint flaking and discoloured.

Before him, a small wooden platform was wrapped around one of the large stone columns, the wooden boards aged and broken, but sturdy enough to hold him.

Stiles climbed over the small railing, bracing his feet against the edge of the landing. He jumped forward, hands outstretched as he caught the edge of the old wooden platform. His body swung beneath him as he tensed his arms and pulled himself upright.

He took a second to steady himself atop the rickety wooden platform before jumping to the next. He braced himself against the pillars and leapt to the far wall, landing on the old platform.

The wooden boards groaned in protest, the rafters shaking beneath him.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy now.”

He took a step forward and grabbed a hold of the large ornate key, pulling down on it.

There was a loud rumble as gears ground against each other and pieces fell into place.

“That’s either really good or really bad,” Stiles muttered to himself. He looked across at the second key that was fixed to the wall across the hall. He let out a heavy sigh. “Only one way to find out.”

He leapt back to the wooden platform and threw himself forward, grabbing a hold of the old cast-iron chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The old metal clattered and jingled but held strong.

Stiles shimmied around the edge of the iron ring and swung himself towards the nearby pillar. His fingers dug into the ridge of the chiselled marble that was made to look like a coil of rope wrapped around the thick column.

He edged his way along the ridge until he was in position. He let go with one hand and stretched out behind himself, kicking off from the pillar and hurling himself at the wooden platform. He landed with a painful grunt, rolling until he hit the wall.

He lifted himself to his feet and dusted himself off before reaching up for the large golden key and pulling down on it.

There was a thundering bang that echoed through the church followed by the groan of old gears grinding together. He glanced over at the stained-glass mural of the impaled heart, watching as the window slowly lowered like a drawbridge, revealing a hidden space behind it.

Stiles skirted around the edge of the wall, balancing on the narrow ledge as he crept over to the stained-glass doorway and stepped into the cool darkness of the concealed room.

Across from the doorway was a stained-glass window with the same symbol set out in the coloured glass. Stiles reached for the two iron handles, pushing them down and pulling the window open.

His eyes fell upon the building next to the church; the mausoleum. Atop the green tiled roof was a symbol moulded into heavy iron; the symbol of a heart with two keys.

Stiles’ eyes drifted down to the doorway, to the two armed guards that stood before the heavy mahogany doors.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Stiles muttered. He pulled the walkie-talkie free from his belt, turned up the volume and pushed down on the receiver. “Hey, Erica?”

“I’m here,” she replied.

“Remember Argent and that little “red herring you sent him on to get him out of the way?”

“Yeah?” she answered quizzically.

“He’s right on top of the vault,” Stiles said dryly.

“You’re joking,” Erica muttered.

“I wish I was.”

“Shit,” she hissed.

“Look, I’m going to need a diversion to get them out of there,” Stiles told her.

“You’ve got it,” she replied with a hint of mischief in her voice. “One diversion coming right up.”

“And, Erica?”

“Yeah?”

“Once they’re gone, I need the two of you to meet me in the mausoleum,” Stiles said before hastily adding, “But come through the catacombs; it’s safer that way.”

“Got it,” Erica replied.

Stiles turned down the volume of the walkie-talkie and clipped it back onto his belt. He looked down at the courtyard where armed guards moved through the mess of twisted trees that were bare of any leaves and the scattered rubble of fallen marble columns and large iron gates.

“Now I’ve just got to get past all of them without getting noticed,” Stiles muttered to himself.

He let out an exaggerated sigh and stepped forward, dropping down from the window and holding onto the edge of the protruding sill. The toes of his boots dug into the uneven stone as he edged his way over to the thick vines that covered the side of the church.

He grabbed a hold of the vine and swung onto it, climbing across the woven lattice until he reached a vine that hung loose. He slid down it and dropped to the ground, rolling and ducking behind a crate.

One of the armed guards paced about before him, his gun in his hold and his eyes searching the grounds.

Stiles leapt up from his cover. He clamped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him backwards.

The man flailed about slightly as his body fell back over an ammunition crate.

Stiles balled his fist and slammed it into the man's face.

The man’s body fell still, his eyes falling shut as his arms dropped to his side.

Stiles dragged him over the crate and laid him in the concealing shadows.

He heard the mercenary’s radio crackle and come to life, a familiar voice breaking through the white noise.

“ _Oh, Argent_ ,” Erica said, her voice condescending and taunting. “You really do underestimate me, don’t you? I just want to thank you for leaving an armed guard with me, because now I have a gun and I’m coming for you.”

There was a thundering boom as Gerard threw open the doors to the mausoleum and stormed into the courtyard.

“Reyes has escaped!” he bellowed. “Spread out! Find her!”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile, a weak chuckle escaping his lips as he watched the armed men filter out of the courtyard like a stream of ants escaping the rain.

He waited for a moment, until he was sure they were all gone and then wove his way through the trees and the rubble and over to the mausoleum. He pushed open the heavy mahogany doors and slipped inside.

Something moved in the corner of his vision.

He spun around, swiftly drawing and cocking his gun.

The man froze, his hands raised defensively as he met Stiles’ gaze.

Derek cocked his brows slightly and Stiles let out a heavy sigh, unlocking the hammer of the gun and holstering it.

“Hey,” Stiles said quietly.

“Hey,” Derek replied, lowering his hands. He kept his gaze locked on Stiles, his brow raised quizzically as if to ask if he was okay.

Stiles was about to say something when Erica interrupted, “I knew you could do it.”

“Nice diversion by the way,” Stiles commented as he looked about the confined space of the mausoleum.

Erica smiled smugly and bowed slightly. She straightened her back and asked, “So what’s next.”

“I don't know, I'm figuring it out as I go,” Stiles admitted. “This is definitely the right place, though.” His eyes fell upon the small stone disks that sat beneath each of the alcoves in the wall. “Wait a second,” he muttered, stepping over to the nearest and inspecting the symbol that was chiselled into the circular stone. “It has something to do with these symbols.”

He grabbed the edge of the stone and pushed at it, but it didn’t budge. He turned it, listening to the stone rumble and grind as the wheel spun in his hands.

“Okay, so they move,” Stiles announced.

He dug into his back pocket and pulled out the small leather journal. He flipped through the pages until he found one that was full of the symbols that reflected those beneath the alcoves: a chalice, two crossed arrows, a book, an anchor, a crown, a snake, and shell.

He held the journal out to Derek and said, “I’m going to need you to help me.”

“What do I do?” Derek asked, frowning down at the pictures.

“Just tell me which way they’re facing,” Stiles instructed. “Starting with the chalice.”

“Upright,” Derek said.

Stiles grabbed the edge of the disk that depicted the ornate chalice which was currently upside down. He began to turn it, the stone rumbling and grinding as Stiles corrected it.

“Okay,” Stiles said, stepping back slightly. He moved to the next one. “The serpent?”

“Facing the left,” Derek said, a hint of confusion in his voice. “So the curves of its body look like a W.”

Stiles nodded and turned the stone plate until it matched the illustration in the journal. “There we go. Next, the crown.”

“Upright,” Derek answered.

Stiles left the plate as it was.

“The book?” Stiles asked.

“Upright,” Derek repeated.

Stiles moved on, leaving the plaque as it was.

“The shell?”

“Upside down,” Derek answered.

Stiles crouched before the alcove, grabbing the edges of the disk and spinning it until it was in place.

A loud thump that echoed through the confined space.

Stiles swallowed hard and moved onto the next one. “The anchor?”

“Upright,” Derek answered.

Stiles grabbed the edge of the dial and turned it, listening to the rumble of stone grinding against stone. “And, lucky last, the arrows?”

“With the ends pointing upwards,” Derek answered.

Stiles turned the stone until the final symbol was in position.

There was a loud thunk, the resonating sound of rumbling rolling through the mausoleum as the wall behind the central alcove began to rise.

“Whoa,” Stiles whispered as he stepped back over to the centre of the room.

He picked up the skull that sat on the small bench in the alcove and tossed it behind him. “Heads up.”

Erica caught it and shot him a dirty glare as she seethed, “You’re incorrigible.”

Stiles smirked mischievously over his shoulder at her before climbing over the small bench and into the dark passageway that had been concealed behind the mausoleum walls.

“What do you make of it?” Erica asked, respectfully setting aside the old skull and ushering Derek through the opening.

Derek passed Drake’s Journal back to Stiles and crawled through into the cavern.

Stiles pocketed the journal and pulled his flashlight from his belt. He turned the torch on and looked about the dark space. The floor was lined with a circular pattern of uneven stone tiles. The walls were lined with catacombs and alcoves set in between large pillars.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It could be a dead end.”

“I don’t’ think so,” Derek said, taking step towards one of the walls. “It looks like there might be an opening over here—”

He took a step forward, the stone slate sinking beneath his foot. There was a loud click.

They all froze.

The surrounding catacomb began to rumble.

“Oh shit,” Stiles gasped.

Erica sat still on the small bench leading into the catacomb.

“What the hell is that?” Erica asked, her voice strained.

Stiles wheeled around. “Erica, get out of there.”

She blinked, stunned. “What?”

“Move!” Stiles shouted, sprinting back to her side. “It’s a trap!”

He shoved her out of the archway.

A stone slab slammed shut.

Stiles pulled his arms back, couching and gasping as a cloud of dust erupted in front of him. He blinked through the dust, looking at the solid stone wall that divided them.

His hands trembled as he reached for his walkie-talkie. He swallowed hard, fear sending icy chills through his veins as he pushed down on the button, “Erica? Erica, are you okay?

There was no reply.

“Erica?!”

“Yeah, yeah,” came the broken reply.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping as he tried to steady his trembling hands.

“I’m fine,” Erica reassured him. “I’m still in one piece. You knocked me on my ass, though.”

“Sorry,” Stiles apologised.

“What now?” Erica asked.

Stiles turned to look at Derek. The man was still standing still, his expression twisted with fear and guilt.

After a moment, Stiles answered, “Get a gun and head back to the library, we’re going to find another way out of here.”

“Okay,” Erica replied. “You two watch yourselves.”

“You too.”


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles stood still for a moment, staring at the sealed archway. He drew in a sharp breath and turned around. He looked at the abysmal darkness that lingered beyond the far doorway. “No way but forward, I guess.”

Derek stood still, looking at Stiles apologetically.

Stiles offered him a kind smile, stepping over to his side and gently patting his forearm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Stiles took the torch from Derek and led the way down into the dark hallway.

The air around him was heavy and stale. A shiver ran up his spine and goosebumps prickled his skin, but it wasn’t from the cold.

He made his way down the small flights of stairs, the narrow walls made of large clay stones that were laid unevenly and packed with dirt; the smell of petrichor seeping into the tunnels.

He followed the tunnel until it opened up into a large cavernous space full of archways, bridges, doors barred off by lattices of iron and old wooden platforms.

Stiles stepped forward, his feet slowing as his shoulders dropped and he let out a dejected sigh.

“What is this place?” Derek asked, stepping up behind him and looking around with wonder.

“A really elaborate way to hide the damn treasure,” Stiles muttered through gritted teeth.

“Okay,” Derek said quietly, looking around the large space. “Which way do we go?”

Stiles shrugged and stepped forward. He pulled an old torch from one of the iron brackets and dug into one of the leather pouches strapped to his back. He pulled out a box of matches, struck one and lit the torch, handing it to Derek.

“I’m going to look ahead,” he told Derek. “I want you to stay here.”

Derek nodded.

Stiles picked up his flashlight and looked around. He made his way down the small flight of stairs with marble railings on either side that made it look as if they were entering an elegant ballroom. He made his way down a narrow stone pathway, looking around the room as he tried to figure out where he needed to go.

There were several doors all barred off like dungeon cells and with no winches to raise the bars.

He let out another heavy sigh and looked down, his brow furrowing with confusion as he noticed the golden plate at his feet.

He gently brushed aside the dirt and crumbling stone with the sole of his boot and looked down at the tile. The discoloured gold sank into grooves, revealing Roman numerals.

Stiles reached into his back pocket and pulled out his map, unfolding the aged paper to find three Roman numerals scrawled on the top right corner of the map: II   V   VII.

“Two, five, seven,” Stiles muttered to himself, folding up his map and pocketed it.

He glanced down at the plate beneath his feet.

II.

“Two,” Stiles repeated to himself.

Beside the number was a small arrow, pointing the way towards a flight of stairs that led to a lower level and over to a large stone archway.

Stiles followed the arrow, crossing over to the archway.

On one of the stones between the archway he found another Roman numeral: V.

“Five….”

Stiles followed the arrow, carefully crossing a rickety old wooden platform. The wooden planks broke away, the jagged edges exposed like teeth.

Ahead of him was another stone platform.

Stiles leapt to the solid ground, his feet slipping beneath him as he landed and rolled to a stop. He winced at the sound of the wooden platform breaking behind him.

“Stiles?” Derek called from across the cavern, his voice bouncing off the walls.

“I’m fine,” Stiles called back.

He froze, his eyes focused on a shadowy figure that scurried across the far wall before disappearing into the shadows.

Stiles blinked, stunned; his gut twisted with unease as he muttered, “What was that?”

He slowly rose to his feet, dusting himself off.

Before him were three golden plates of Roman numerals that branched off in different directions.

“Seven,” he muttered to himself, walking over to the matching plate.

He followed the narrow path towards the sound of running water.

Above him, a narrow stream of gushing water poured from the ceiling. The crashing waves splashed against the wooden slats of the old water mill, but the wheel remained still.

“Found something yet?” Derek asked.

“Maybe,” Stiles answered, reaching for the large handle attached to a bracket that held the wheel’s axel in place. “Just stand clear of anything until we see what this does.”

He grabbed the end of the lever and pulled it down, pulling the bracket away from the axel.

The wheel groaned and began to move; the force of the gushing stream pushing against the boards.

He glanced down over the edge of the platform, watching as the several connecting wheels began to turn like cogs in a machine.

Behind him there was a loud rumble.

He spun around, watching as the stone path broke away; the bridge lowering and changing to a different path.

Stiles took a cautious step forward, looking across the room to where a large cast-iron gate rose; opening a window.

“Did you do something?” Derek asked. “Because things just started moving down here.”

“Yeah, that was me,” Stiles replied. “Can you make your way over to the open door below that window?”

Derek thought about it for a moment. “I think so.”

“Okay, meet me there,” Stiles called. “But only follow the tiles that say two, five and seven; the others might have booby traps or God knows what.”

“Two, five and seven,” Derek repeated back to him. “Got it.”

Stiles stepped towards the new path, his eyes falling on the golden plate that was embedded in the new bridge.

II.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Here we go.”

He followed the path, his feet cautiously shuffling across the smooth stones as he made his way over to the branching path.

V.

He crossed onto the wooden platform, pausing as the old wood groaned in protest beneath his weight. He made his way over to where the path ended.

Before him, an old iron chain was bolted into the wall, hanging down like a vine.

Stiles leapt for it, grabbing at the iron links with his hands. He curled his fingers around the large loops and began to climb up the rattling chain and towards the stone archway.

He found the next tile – VII – and followed where the small arrow pointed to the broken edge of a pathway and the open window.

He glanced down at the platform beneath the window, where Derek stood, looking up at him.

“I made it!” Stiles said triumphantly.

“Be careful up there,” Derek warned him. “That edge doesn’t look very-”

There was a loud crack and Stiles lost his footing; the edge crumbling beneath him.

“Stiles!” Derek howled.

He fell to the ledge below, his body hitting the stones with a painful crack as he was thrown aside, toppling off the edge of the bridge.

His fingers raked across the stones, his hands grabbing onto the edge of the pathway as the debris rained around him; falling down into the darkness below and landing with a gut-wrenching crack.

“Stiles?”

“I’m alright,” Stiles rasped, tensing his arms and pulling himself back up onto the stone platform. “I’m okay.” He looked down at Derek. "I'm going to try and open the door from the other side, okay?"

"Okay," Derek agreed.

Stiles stepped over to the wall and threw himself at the ledge. His fingers dug into the uneven bricks, the rough grains of the rock scratching at his hands. He tensed his jaw and swung his legs beneath him, pushing his body forward with momentum as he shuffled along the narrow sill.

He dug his foot into the crevices and scaled the brick wall, climbing up to the window and pulling himself through the opening. He swung one leg over the ledge and paused for a moment, letting out a sigh of relief.

He swung his other leg over and dropped down onto the wooden scaffolding.

The platform shuddered and groaned, shifting beneath his weight.

Stiles staggered on the scaffolding, his hands outstretched as he tried to steady himself.

He held his breath, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as his heart slammed against his ribs.

He slowly lifted his gaze to the rattling chains, watching as the old hooks strained to hold his weight.

"Ah crap," he gasped.

The platform dropped.

A scream tore itself free of his chest as he fell.

His body hit the ground with a painful thud and he quickly rolled aside, dodging the splintering wood as the old wooden scaffolding collapsed, erupting in a cloud of dust.

There was a loud groan and the clattering of chains as the large iron gate began to rise.

"That was a very manly scream," Derek teased as he ducked under the iron bars and crossed over to Stiles' side.

Stiles laid on the ground - stunned. His lips moved around unspoken words for a second before he held up his hand, pointing a warning finger at Derek as he bit into his lip. He turned his dark eyes to Derek and said, "We never speak of this again."

A mischievous smirk played across Derek's lips, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as he held a hand out and helped Stiles to his feet.

Stiles dusted himself off and looked around. He made his way over to the wide wooden platform that bridged the gap. He set one foot on it, listening to the old withered boards creak. He sucked in his breath through gritted teeth and stepped out onto the platform.

It shuddered and groaned, but didn't break.

"Okay," Stiles said quietly. "Let's get going."

Derek followed him onto the wooden walk way, testing each board before setting his foot down.

Either side of the walkway, large marble columns rose from the ground like trees breaking through the forest floor.

A loud bang ran out through the catacombs, the deafening rumble echoing through the shadows as the silhouettes of three men hurried through the doorway in the ledge above them.

One, the leader, slowed and called out to Stiles, "Hey, bule!"

Stiles felt his jaw tense, rage boiling through his blood as he seethed, "Donovan."

"Last man alive gets the gold!" Donovan shouted. He reached down to his belt and pulled out a grenade. He held it up for show, sliding his finger through the silver ring and pulling it free. He dropped the grenade over the edge of balcony, a wicket smirk twisting his face as the lever bounced away and the grenade rattled across the wooden walkway towards them. "You lose."

"Get down!" Stiles shouted, pushing Derek towards one of the stone columns.

Stiles kicked the grenade back away from them and jumped to the column. He clawed at the smooth marble, trying to find a grip as his boots scuffed the ornate ring of chiselled stone.

The grenade exploded, the shock wave knocking them about as the erupting flames consumed the wooden bridge. The scaffolding began to crumble, falling away into the darkness.

Stiles tensed his arms, trying to keep himself upright as his vision blurred and his body began to waver. His lungs burnt for air, the sweet relief of breath playing across his lips. His ears were filled with a shrill ringing.

"Derek?" Stiles muttered, his voice raspy. He blinked his vision clear turning his head to look at the man.

He reached out, resting his hand atop of Derek's, but he didn't move.

"Derek!" Stiles shouted over the ringing in his ears.

Derek's head snapped up, his shoulders rising and falling with panicked breaths as his aventurine eyes focused on Stiles.

"Are you hurt?" Stiles asked, his voice firm.

Derek shook his head.

"Okay, you're okay," Stiles said reassuringly, his voice softening. "Now, I need you to listen to me. I'm going to jump to that ledge of there, then I shuffle around and do the same thing, okay?"

"I can't make that jump," Derek argued.

"I will help you," Stiles promised. His dark brown eyes caught a glimmer of gold in the dying light as he looked Derek in the eye. "Trust me."

Derek nodded.

Stiles shuffled about on the column, turning so his back was against the smooth marble. He crouched slightly, and threw himself forward. He caught the edge of the far platform, his body swinging below himself. He dug his hands in, pulling himself up onto solid ground before turning back to Derek.

"Okay, now you," he called.

Derek drew in a deep breath, shuffling around the column and turning around the way Stiles had. He looked across at Stiles. "I can't..."

"Yes, you can," Stiles said encouragingly, crouching slightly and readying himself to catch Derek. "Look at me, don't close your eyes. I'll catch you," he promised. "All you have to do is jump."

Derek bit into his lower lip and nodded. He braced himself against the marble and jumped.

Time seemed to slow for a second as Derek's outstretched arm brushed against Stiles'. Stiles' fingers coiled around his wrist and in an instant, time sped up.

Derek's weight slammed against the stone ledge, the only thing stopping him from falling was Stiles.

"I'm going to pull you up," Stiles grunted.

Stiles tensed his body pulling Derek up towards the ledge.

Derek grabbed a hold of the edge with his free hand, his arm trembling as he pulled himself towards the platform. Stiles tightened his grip on the man’s wrist and hauled the rest of Derek’s body up onto solid ground.

Derek rolled onto the ground and let out a heavy sigh, his hands trembling as he laid beside Stiles.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, turning his head to look at Derek.

Derek nodded, balling his hands into fists and drawing in a deep breath.

"Alright," Stiles said with a sigh. "We need to keep moving. Just stay with me and stay low."

Derek nodded again.

They rose to their feet and made their way through the doorway and into the heart of the vault. The hallways snaked around corners and up flights of stairs; all lit bu the flickering orange flames of burning torches.

Stiles turned off his flashlight and lifted a torch free from one of the iron brackets.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Derek who was trailing behind him, quiet and in shock.

The man's glittering aventurine eyes scanned their surroundings, looking at the finest details with a sense of wonder and amazement.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something when a thundering boom erupted throughout the vault.

"What was that?" Derek asked.

"Donovan," Stiles answered, drawing his gun from the holster strapped to his chest. He turned to Derek and held out the torch, "Take this and stay behind me."

Derek took the torch, following Stiles as they made their way up the old stone staircase in front of them. As they neared the top, Stiles slowed and pressed his back against the wall, edging his way along the rough clay and peering into the next room.

There was no one there.

Stiles climbed the rest of the stairs and looked around.

"There's some kind of ladder mechanism over there," Derek pointed out.

"I'll climb up and drop it down for you," Stiles said, holstering his gun and crossing over to the jagged clay wall.

Large stone bricks had once lined the wall; the limestone mortar giving way with age and leaving the bricks to crumble and the wall with uneven brickwork.

Stiles grabbed the edge of one of the bricks, digging his feet into the clay and hauling himself upwards. He scaled the wall, finding footholds and grooves where his hands found grip. He reached behind himself and leapt to the balcony. He pulled himself onto the elevated level and crossed over to the ladder.

He grabbed a hold of the handle and began to turn the crank, watching as the ladder slid along the rails until it tipped off balance and fell into place. Behind him, another ladder on rails fell into place, granting them access to the higher level.

Derek grabbed one of the rungs and climbed up before following Stiles up to the next level.

They walked through the doorway and into a large circular room. Alcoves were built into the walls, encircling them with catacombs that gathered nothing but dust. The floor was made of tiles, faded but still holding the original colours: red, white and gold. Around them, several large pillars framed the room, the stone carved to look like coiling rope; others laid in toppled ruins and piles of cracked rubble.

Derek held up his torch, the flickering light filling the room. "Dead end," he announced. "There's nothing here."

"This is getting old," Stiles growled, his voice edged with frustration. He turned and looked across the room, his eyes falling upon a corpse that sat, slumped against the rubble.

The bones were decayed; the grooves of the skull darkened with dust and dirt and the jaw hanging loose. The only thing that remained intact was the old steel plate of armour that was strapped around the corpse's neck.

Stiles took a step forward and crouched down, gently brushing his fingers across the coat of arms that had been stamped into the breastplate.

"Stiles?" Derek asked, his voice quiet and cautions.

"It's Sir Francis Drake," Stiles answered, disheartened. "He never found the treasure. He just... died here."

Stiles reached behind his neck, untying the thin leather cord and lifting the necklace away. He held it out before himself, looking at the aged silver ring that hung from the cord. His eyes rolled over the engraved letters: ' _Sic parvis magna_ '.

"So much for 'greatness'," Stiles muttered. He eyes drifted from the ring to the body that lay slouched against the rubble. "He wasted his life, and all for nothing."

Stiles let the leather cord slide free of his hand, the ring chiming as it struck the stone tiles in front of the corpse.

The drifting echo of blood-curdling screams trailed into the cavern.

Derek spun around, his wide eyes focused on the doorway as the chill drifted into the room and sent shivers up his spine.

:"Stiles," Derek muttered quietly, his voice strained by fear. He glanced back over his shoulder, his voice soft and cautious as he asked, "Are you ready to keep moving."

"Yeah," Stiles muttered as he rose to his feet, his eyes still fixed on the corpse. He stood still for a second, looking at Sir Francis Drake's still body. "More than ever," he said with a hint of determination in his voice. He took a step back and looked around the room again, his expression composed and serious. "There's got to be a way out of here."

"If there is, we need to find it quick," Derek replied, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

The shadows in the doorway billowed and quivered as the bright orange flames of the torch wavered.

Stiles turned about in circles, his eyes drifting across the walls of the vault, searching the shadows of the catacombs that lined the walls for lose bricks or holes they could climb through.

Across from the door, an old steel ladder lay on the floor, rusted and broken away from the rest of it.

Stiles' eyes drifted up to the platform above him.

"There looks like there's another crank up there," he said, stepping over to where the ladder hung, just out of reach. "Come on, I'll give you a boost up there."

"Me?" Derek said, stunned.

"If whatever's out there is going to come through that door-" He pointed at the open doorway that lead into the vault. "-then I don't want to leave you down here alone. You'll be safe up there, now come on." He knelt down before the ladder and said, "Climb onto my shoulders."

Derek set the torch down and did as instructed, setting his foot on Stiles' thigh and climbing up onto his shoulders.

"You're heavier than you look," Stiles wheezed as he rose to his feet and lifted Derek higher.

"You're stronger than you look," Derek replied.

"Can you reach the ladder?" Stiles asked.

Derek dug his foot into the seam where the stone of the pillar had broken away and leapt up to the ladder. He caught the lower rung, his body swinging beneath him as he reached up again and pulled himself up the ladder.

Stiles watched Derek climb up to the platform and lift his body onto the higher level.

"See anything?" Stiles called after him.

"It looked like an old hoist or something," Derek replied, nodding toward the large iron crane-like bracket that hung over the vault. "I'll see if I can find some rope."

"Don't go too far," Stiles warned.

"I won't," Derek called back. "Wait, there's a tunnel or something up here. I think it might be a way out."

His voice trailed away and Stiles threw his hands up in the air. "What did I just say?"

There was no reply.

There was a loud boom, the thundering echo shaking the catacombs.

Stiles spun around, his hear skipping a beat as two figures backed into the room. He drew his gun from the holster, cocked it and aimed it at the two men.

"Hello, boys," he greeted, his voice low and sly.

The two spun around their hands shaking and their eyes wide with terror as they pointed their guns at Stiles.

"Easy, Donovan. Easy," Stiles said soothingly.

Beyond the doorway there was the sound of gargled screeches.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Stiles asked.

"Didn't you see them?" Donovan shrieked.

"Oh no... Oh God, no..." the guard muttered over and over, his wide eyes staring into the shadows beyond the doorway and his gun shaking in his hands.

Donovan looked around the vault.

"We're trapped!" he howled, distraught.

There was a loud, blood-curdling screech from beyond the doorway, the gut-wrenching sounds of men crying out in pain silenced by the sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones and splurting blood. The hissing grew louder, closer.

"Jesus," Stiles muttered breathlessly. He tightened his grip on his pistol, unable to tear his eyes away from the doorway. "What is that?"

"We're dead," Donovan howled. "We're all fucking dead!"

They heard an inhuman gargle and spun around.

"Look out!" Stiles shouted, but he was too late.

The creature knocked the guard's weapon out of his hands and clamped its hand around his throat. Its jagged talons dug into the flesh of his throat, strangling the man's startled cry.

He didn’t get the chance to scream. The creature twisted its head around and bit into the man's face, tearing his head from his body before retreating into the darkness with its prize.

"No!" Donovan cried, chasing the creature to the edge of the platform.

He aimed over the edge and fired into the chasm.

The creature vanished out of sight as a wave of others began to climb out of the shadows and over the edges of the platforms, reaching out with their skinny, elongated limbs.

"Oh crap," Stiles whispered.

He tightened his grip on his gun, raising his arms and drawing in deep breaths as he tried to compose himself - just like Christ had taught him.

"Donovan," he called, his voice low and firm. "Get back here."

The man retreated, stumbling back across the stone tiles to Stiles' side. He stood back-to-back with Stiles in the middle of the room, his hands shaking as he aimed his guns at the growling creatures.

"Stilinski," Donovan said, his voice quivering. "If we don't make it out of this... I just want you to know... I hate your guts."

Stiles let out a dry chuckle. "Likewise."

He cocked his gun and aimed it at the deformed creature that crawled towards him.

He cocked his gun and aimed it at the deformed creature that crawled towards him.

"Now," Stiles said, his voice low and steady as he demeanour changed. "Let's do this."

He pulled the trigger, the bullets tearing through the flesh of the creature that charged at him. Its elongated limbs jerked about, flailing as the creature collapsed to the ground.

Stiles turned, firing at another monster.

"Derek?" Stiles called, his voice ringing over the sound of gunfire and echoing throughout the vault.

"What the hell is going on down there?" Derek called, his voice full of fear.

Stiles dove to the side, rolling across the dusty stone tiles as the creature leapt over him.

It dug its talons into the stone, tearing apart the grout as it pivoted and lunged at Stiles.

Stiles, flat on his side, raised his gun. But he was too late; one of the creature knocked him off balance and pinned him down against the stone tiles.

He let out a cry of pain as his head slammed against the floor and the gun was knocked from his grip. He wrestled and fought back, but it was no use; the creature was far stronger than him.

He caught one of the creature's wrists with his hand, pinning their lanky arm to their chest as he dug his elbow into the creature's throat and held him back with his forearm.

The creature leant in close, exposing its face. It was deathly pale and distorted, it’s flesh twisted about its head like a blindfold. Its mouth was full of rows upon rows of teeth, pieces of rotting flesh caught between the jagged teeth.

It tilted its head, its jaw opening wide as its teeth drew closer and closer to Stiles’ face.

Stiles tensed, leaning back as far as he could as he desperately reached for the pistol that had been knocked aside.

His fingers brushed against the metal of the grip, but he couldn't grab it.

A loud boom echoed about the closed space as the creature's body jerked atop of Stiles. Its lifeless body toppled off of Stiles and collapsed to the cold stone tiles, still.

Stiles sat still for a second, stunned. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and followed the trajectory of the bullet up to where the shot had come from. His wide eyes fell upon Derek, who stood with his gun in his hands, his cold eyes focused down the barrel.

Stiles met his gaze and nodded slightly; that was as much thanks as he could muster in that moment.

He leapt to his feet as more creatures charged forward, one knocking Donovan aside and another tackling Stiles back against the marble column.

Stiles grabbed a chunk of the broken stone and slammed it against the side of the creature's head.

The creature stumbles aside, stunned, and screeched as it clutched its wounded head.

Stiles charged forward, dropping down to his knees and skidding across the tiles as he scooped up his gun, turned and fired.

The bullet tore through the head of the stunned creature.

Stiles spun around and fired again, shooting the creature off of Donovan.

"Derek?" Stiles called. "How's it going up there?"

"The winch is completely rusted," Derek replied. "It won't move."

"I need you to work something out," Stiles shouted up to him, his voice pleading. "And fast!"

One of the creatures snarled and hissed, circling around Stiles as if it were sizing up its prey.

Stiles aimed his gun and fired.

Across the platform, Donovan fired his gun at one of the creatures that clawed its way up the side of the platform.

"That's right, you ugly fuck!" Donovan shouted at the creature that toppled over the edge of the platform. "Nobody messes with Donovan Donati."

As soon as the words left his mouth another creature leapt forward, grabbing the front of his shirt with its talon-like claws.

Donovan cried out, firing into the creature chest.

The creature swiped his gun aside, the gold-plated pistol clattering across the stone tiles and sliding to a stop at Stiles' foot.

Stiles glanced down at the gun then spun around.

"Donovan!" he shouted, running over to the man's side.

Donovan thrashed about in the creature's hold, shoving at its body and clawing at its arm, trying to break its hold on him, but nothing seemed to work. The creature dragged him closer and closer to the edge of the platform and towards the daunting abyss that dwelled below.

"Donovan!" Stiles called again, raising his gun and firing at the other creatures that charged at them. "Hold on!"

He sprinted over to Donovan's side, his legs wheeling beneath him as he stumbled to a halt and grabbed the back of Donovan's shirt with one hand and Donovan's outstretched hand with the other. He pulled back, trying to tear the man free of the creature's hold.

Stiles heard a vicious snarl, glancing over at the other creature that crawled out of the pit, its hands reaching for Donovan.

Stiles slammed his boot into the creature's twisted face, stunning if for a second. He let go of the back of Donovan's shirt and aimed his gun at the creature. He fired, the bullet tearing through the creature's deformed head.

Stiles turned back to Donovan, the man's hand slipping through his grip.

"Donovan," Stiles growled through gritted teeth. "Hold on."

But it was too late.

The creature lunged forward, jerking its head to the side and biting into Donovan's neck with it's jagged teeth.

The man let out a gargles cry, blood spilling from his neck and across the creature's twisted face.

"Donovan!" Stiles howled.

The creature pulled the man's still body free of Stiles' hold and dove into the dark pit below them.

Stiles stumbled back, his throat dry and his heart pounding against his chest as he looked around.

More creatures began to climb out of the abyss. The vault was filled with the echoes of hissing and growling as the deformed creatures clawed their way up onto the platform.

"Oh crap," Stiles gasped, his eyes darting about the space. He was outnumbered: twenty-to-one. He began to back into the centre of the room, turning about as he loaded another clip into his gun, raised his arms and aimed at the creatures. "Derek, hurry up!"

One of the creatures hissed at him and hurled themselves forward.

Stiles fired his gun, the creature's body jerking as the lead bullets tore through the ivory-white flesh.

"I've got it," Derek cried out triumphantly. "It's moving."

Stiles spun around, shooting the creatures that charged him.

He could hear the old metal gears groaning and screeching as Derek moved the winch into place and lowered the hook down into the vault.

"Grab the rope!" Derek shouted.

Stiles quickly holstered his gun and sprinted at the rope. He threw himself into the air and grabbed the rope. The coarse fibres scratched at his palms, seams of blood breaking the surface and trickling across his hands.

Stiles bit into his lip, his legs swinging beneath himself as he hauled his body up the rope; one hand in front of the other.

"I'll swing you over to the ledge, hold on," Derek instructed.

Stiles tightened his grip on the rope, glancing over his shoulder and down at the creatures that hissed and growled as they scaled up the marble columns.

The old winch groaned as it turned.

Stiles leapt to the ledge, toppling onto the solid stone balcony and rolling to his feet.

"Go!" he shouted to Derek, running over to the man's side and gently pushing him towards the tunnel. "Go!"

Stiles flailed about, stumbling slightly as his feet pedalled beneath him. His tripped over a stone, hitting the ground and rolling onto his front. He used a hand to steady himself, leaping to his feet and tearing into the darkness beyond the tunnel.

"Stiles?" Derek called back to him.

"Just go," Stiles shouted back. He drew his gun from the holster, aiming behind himself as he ran down the tunnel. "Run. Run!"

The hissing and growling grew louder as the creatures scurried into view, climbing up the walls and bounding over the piles of rubble and stone.

One lunged forward, slashing at Stiles.

Stiles fired back at them, his eyes darting ahead of him at the winding tunnels and labyrinth of hallways. He pivoted his ankles and sprinted around the corners, glancing over his shoulders and firing at the creature that chased them.

"Go, go, go!" he shouted as Derek ran ahead of him.

The stone walls gave way to copper pipes and metal panelling that was stamped with faded black ink.

"This way," Derek called, racing around a corner.

Stiles followed.

Derek led him into a large room at the end of the table.

Stiles skidded into the room, shoving the doors shut.

"What the hell are those things?" Derek asked, doubled over and gasping for breath.

"I don't know. I don't know," Stiles stammered as he holstered his gun, pushing the weight of his body against the heavy metal door as he grabbed the spokes of the large wheel and turned it. The large locks slid into place with a loud thud. Stiles let out a heavy sigh and slouched forward against the door, panting. He glanced over his shoulder and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Derek muttered, straightening his back as he looked around the room. "Um... Stiles..."

Stiles took a step back and looked at the fortified entrance. "I don't think they can get through this."

"Stiles," Derek called again.

Stiles spun around, alert. "What?"

"Where are we?" Derek asked, looking about the large bunker.

The room was empty except for a large table in the middle of the room and a few pieces of scattered paper and trinkets that sat atop the table. The walls and floor were made out of metal panels that were stained with smears of orange and brown rust. In the centre of the room, the wooden plating of the floor had been replaces with metal grates. Fuse boxes and control panels with thick wires coming out of them were screwed onto the walls. A large memo board was screwed into the far wall, a few pieces of discoloured paper pinned against the cork; the printed ink faded, smeared and illegible. On the far wall was a bay of dirt-smeared windows. Below them sat large control boards with broken screens and levers jammed into position.

"I'm not sure," Stiles answered.

There was a thundering bang as a creature threw itself at the door.

Stiles and Derek spun around again, their guns drawn and aimed at the heavy metal door.

The creature cried out in frustration.

Stiles and Derek edged back towards the centre of the room.

"Go," Stiles encouraged.

Derek turned and hurried across the room, skidding to a halt as something on the table caught his attention. He began to brush aside the scattered pieces of paper and read the written script. "Whoa," he gasped.

Stiles ran over to one of the windows, looking down over the frame of the window.

"Whoa," he gasped, looking down at the rusted U-boat. "Well, that explains the U-boat in the Amazon."

"Stiles," Derek called from behind him, his voice quiet. "Come here. Look at this."

Stiles made his way around the table and stood beside Derek. He looked down at the scattered pieces of paper: an old sketch of the monastery's buildings and a faded photograph of a glorious golden statue; El Dorado.

"They found it," Stiles muttered. "They must've broken into the vault and cleared it out."

"Yeah, but what does the monastery have to do with it?" Derek asked.

"I don't know," Stiles admitted. He looked down at the scattered pages and the photograph, something leaving his stomach feeling uneasy. "It doesn't make any sense." He pointed at the sketch of the monastery. "If that's where the statue is now... We were right on top of it."

Derek stepped away from the table and crossed the room to an old, rusted lift. He craned his neck and looked up the dark elevator shaft. "I think this'll take us to the surface."

He pushed the button on the panel beside the elevator, but nothing happened.

"I guess the Nazis didn't pay their electric bill," Stiles jested.

"Damn," Derek huffed.

Stiles stepped over to the large diagram on the wall and looked at a charted map of the vault and its labyrinth of tunnels that was overlaid with the blueprints of the buildings and wiring.

"It looks like the fuse boxes are in the generator room a few floors down. I bet if we can make it to the generator room, we could get the power turned back on," Stiles said. He straightened his back and looked around the room. "We've just got to find a way out of here first." He looked over at Derek. "Wait, what are you doing?" Stiles stammered as Derek stormed across the room and grabbed a metal box off the table. "What are you doing?!"

Derek hurled the box across the room and through one of the windows, shattering the glass.

Stiles stared at the broken window, stunned.

"I found a way out," Derek said with a mischievous smirk.

Stiles couldn't help but smile. "Nice work."

He crossed over to the broken window and looked down. He brushed away the broken glass on the control panel, climbed up onto the desk and kicked out the broken shards of glass with the heel of his boot. He turned back to Derek and held out his hand. "Okay, let's go."

"Uh... no," Derek said, taking a step back. "This one's all yours."

"What?"

"You know I can't make that jump, Stiles," he argued.

"There is no way I'm leaving you along up here with those things," Stiles objected.

"We don't have a choice," Derek said with finality. "The door's holding them off for now. I'm safe here. Just go turn on the power, come back and get me, and then we'll get the hell out of here, okay?" His expression softened. "Go."

Stiles let out a deep breath, biting into his lower lip as he begrudgingly nodded.

"Okay," he muttered. He looked up at Derek, his eyes glittering like gold as they caught the light and full of determination as he said, "I'll be right back."

A soft smile played across Derek's lips as he met Stiles' gaze. "Okay."


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles held onto the window frame, looking out at the large rusting industrial pipes meant for water and ventilation that were woven together like a lattice of tangled vines. Intertwined between them were smaller pipes and poles that were painted yellow and orange.

Beyond the mess of pipes was the rippling sheet of ocean that was painted purple by the setting sun. The sky was streaked with shades of orange and pink; the colours igniting the sky like a blazing fire.

Stiles glanced down at the gushing water far below him; a roaring river that parted into foaming waves over the fallen rubble of bricks and metal.

He let out a heavy sigh and willed his body to move.

He lowered himself out of the window, holding onto the concrete ledge beneath the old, grey metal frame.

His ears were filled with the deafening roar of the rushing water of the river that ran below.

He shuffled along the ledge and reached out behind himself. He kicked off of the wall and threw himself at the large iron pipe. The metal plating rumbled like thunder as he landed and pulled himself up. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly as he began to move forward. He set one foot in front of the other as he edged his way along the large iron pipe.

The old pipe bent upwards, blocking Stiles' path. He reached up and held onto the welded ring of the connected pieces of iron pipe. His fingers strained to hold onto the thin ridge as he swung his body around the large pipe and towards the wall.

Beside him, an obnoxiously bright yellow pole was fastened into the wall, the vibrant pain flaking away to expose patches of green and brown where the steel had rusted over.

Stiles reached out towards the old brick wall grabbing a hold of the pole, tightening his grip on it and scaling up towards concrete ledge above of him.

The steel brackets that screwed the pole to the wall began to groan and tremble.

:The pole shuddered and Stiles instinctively tightened his grip.

"Keep going," he whispered to himself as he reached up again.

The pole shook violently, screeching as the brackets broke away from the wall.

"Shit, shit, shit."

Stiles leapt to another large pipe, his body thumping against the metal with a thundering echo that rumbled throughout the space. He struggled to find grip, straining his arms as he hung over the edge of the pipe. He shuffled his way along, his legs swinging beneath him. He reached up for the yellow rings fastened around the bend of the pipe: the old guard rails for the ladder that had fallen into the river years ago.

His fingers brushed against the flaking paint, the bar just out if his reach.

He steadied his hand on the large iron pipe and swung his body back and forth, building up enough momentum to throw himself upwards. He caught a hold of the guard rail and begun to climb upwards, reaching for one rung and then then next.

He braced himself against one rung and leapt over the gaps left by broken guard rails and up to the next yellow bar.

He climbed up and over the large iron pipes.

Reaching out, he grabbed onto the narrow pipe that ran down the wall. He climbed over, digging his feet into the holes left by broken mortar and bracing himself around the wall. He weakened his grip and slid down the pipe, slowing to a halt and leaping to another pole that was bolted into the wall.

He swung his body along the pipe, feeling it shudder and jolt as the metal bracket broke away from the wall.

"Whoa," Stiles gasped, his arms tensing as he forced his arms to move as he dragged himself along the metal bar until he reached the end. He reached out and caught hold of a rusted silver chain. He let go of the pipe and let his body sway with the chain.

He braced his feet against the wall and swung back and forth until he built up enough momentum to hurl himself forward.

He let go of the chain and caught a hold of another narrow pipe; the flaking orange pain scratching at the palms of his hands as he scaled up the old pipe. He slowed as he reached the top of it, reaching out behind himself and throwing himself back at the old concrete platform that jutted out from the wall.

He caught the edge of the concrete slab, reaching up for the old steel railing and pulling himself up onto the platform.

He crossed to the other side of the platform, holding onto the railing as he looked down over the edge.

Below him sat the old rusting U-boat that hung above the roaring water. The metal plating of the ship was covered in bronze rust, the massive ship hanging from old hooks that were screwed into the ceiling. The chains rattled like wind chimes in the wake of the rushing water, the fixtures and hooks groaning under the strain.

Below the rusting U-boat was the coursing river that filtered out through the two large cement gates that lead out to the open sea.

Above him was a large ventilation pipe that stretched across to the other side of the launch bay.

He reached up and grabbed a hold of the large pipe, pulling himself up off the platform and letting his legs hang beneath him. He swayed his body slightly as he built up momentum and shuffled along the pipe. His hands found grip on the buckling metal, welded joints, and large rusting holes that had bored through the sheets of steel.

The ventilation shaft rumbled and groaned beneath his hands, the metal sheets buckling beneath his hands.

Stiles felt his heart rise into his throat, beating hard as he cautiously swung himself across the churning waters and over to the other side. He dropped down onto an old metal platform, the rusted lattice of bars rumbling like thunder beneath him.

He froze, wondering for a second if the platform was going to give way, but it held strong.

Stiles made his way through the opening in the wall and into the dark tunnels full of dam musk and the stench of mildew. He made his way over to the old rusted bridge that connected two pathways, the middle of the bridge broken and hanging limp.

Stiles leap across the bag, landing with a heavy thud that sent a jolt of burning pain up his legs. He winced and staggered back to his feet before continuing down into the tunnels.

The dark walls arched overhead; the dull grey bricks crumbling away to expose the rich brown clay and damp earth. Thin rivulets of water trickled down through the crevices in the rocky walls, shimmering like d glass as they caught the fading light from back down the tunnel.

Stiles reached down to his belt and turned on his flashlight.

Around him, the walls were lined with broken pipes, the metal rusted to shades of brown, orange and blue. Broken fixtures and segments of pipe lay scattered on the ground, thin streams of water gathering in some; running through the piping and pooling in the divots of uneven tiles.

Stiles continued on through the tunnels and through small rooms. Each room was fortified with large steel doors with heavy deadlocks, designed to lock into place and seal off the rooms but now lay broken off their hinges or lying on the ground and gathering dust.

Stiles felt a chill run up his spine, his stomach churning with unease.

Something wasn't right.

A loud noise broke the silence, making Stiles' heart jump.

"S-i-es--ar--u--ere," Erica's voice broke through the crackling static.

Stiles plucked his walkie talkie from his belt and held down the button to reply. "Erica, come in."

The walkie crackled, a few broken words making their way past the static. "Ar-en--aking--to--un-ker--iles?"

Stiles let out a heavy sigh. "It's no use," he told himself, turning down the volume and clipping the walkie talkie back onto his belt. "I can't get a signal in here."

He made his way on through the bunkers, navigating his way through the tunnels full of debris and the passages ways blocked by fallen rubble.

He stepped over to a large steel door that sat ajar slightly. He pressed his hand against the cold metal and pushed. The door ground back against the dirt and the tiles, opening up to reveal a large room in ruins.

It looked as if it had once been an infirmary: the old cots pushed up against the walls, the metal frames rusted and overturned and the mattresses torn and black with mould and rot. Steel trays and trolleys were scattered around the room, overturned and consumed by orange rust.

"What the hell happened here?" Stiles whispered as he stepped into the middle of the room. He circled around the large pillar in the centre of the room, setting his feet down among the mess.

The floor was covered in smooth grey tiles that were cracked, shattered and upturned, exposing the earth beneath them and covering others in dirt and clumps of clay.

Stiles' eyes drifted to the walls, following the rows of grey and brown pipes that trailed from control boxes that were screwed to the walls, up to the ceilings, along the walls and down one of the long hallways that branched off of the room.

He crossed over to the far door and pushed it open, his stomach sinking and his breath catching in his throat as the hauntingly white, twisted faces of several creatures tuned to look at him.

Stiles swallowed hard.

"Oh, shit," he gasped.

He wretched his gun free of the holster and cocked it, firing rapidly as the creatures charged towards him.

Stiles scurried back into the room, springing over the rubble and wreckage of the infirmary as he tried to put distance between himself and the creatures.

The creatures bounced into the room, hissing and snarling as they scaled the walls.

"Shit, shit, shit," Stiles muttered as he sprinted across the room and into the now-empty hallway.

He kicked up his heels and ran. The muscles in his legs burnt, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he sprinted down the dark hallways.

He aimed his gun behind himself, firing back down the hallway at the creatures that scaled the walls, bounced off the rubble and chased after her. The animalistic sounds of their snarling and growling bounced off the walls, echoing down the hallway as Stiles ran on.

He ran towards a large room at the end of the hallway.

He threw himself at the door, shouldering it open and tumbling into the room. He scrambled to his feet and charged at the door. He shoved the heavy door shut behind himself and grabbed the wheel, his arms straining to turn it. The metal gave way beneath his force, the wheel turning and the deadlocks sliding into place.

There was a thundering bang as the steel bars fell into place.

Stiles' shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths as he tried to calm himself.

There was a loud bang as the creatures threw themselves against the steel door.

Stiles held his breath, his eyes fixed on the door.

Beyond the door, he heard the creatures cry out in frustration, growling, snarling and screeching as they scurried back down the hallway.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh of relief.

He staggered backwards, turning slightly and making his way into the centre of the large, dark room. Around him sat large green machines; the dull paint flaking away from the steel plating.

"This has got to be the generator room," Stiles muttered as he walked over to one of the generators.

He holstered his gun and grabbed the handle of a crank that was connected to one of the generator's turbines. He pushed against the crank, listening to it groan as the metal that was rusted in place began to break free. The gears began to turn, his grip weakening as the crank became easier to move.

He pushed it hard, listening to the generator cough, splutter and groan as it started up. There was a thundering boom that echoed through the empty space, the sound dying down to a low rumble as the generator started up.

Stiles let out a soft chuckle, relief flooding his body.

He glanced across the room to where the metal grate of the elevator shaft was. He watched as the elevator slowly lowered itself to the floor.

He turned to make his way over to the walkway that led to the elevator when the room was flooded with red light and blaring sirens.

Stiles flinched, his eyes darting around the room as heavy steel doors rose and the ghastly white creatures crawled into the room.

"Oh crap."

He kicked up his heels and ran for the open doorway. He leapt over the piles of rubble and vaulted over the broken workstations and heavy rusted pipes. He burst through into the hallway, shoving the doors shut behind him.

There was a loud bang as one the creatures threw themselves against the door, knocking Stiles to the ground.

A creature broke through the opening.

Stiles spun around, slamming his boot against the door and shoving it shut again.

The creature let out a blood-curdling shriek as its arm was jammed between the doors. It thrashed about, slashing at the air and trying to claw at Stiles' legs.

"Son of a bitch," Stiles hissed as he braced himself against the cold earth and pushed harder against the door.

His ears were filled with the sounds of the creatures screeching, snarling and growling.

The metal door rumbled as the creatures threw themselves against it, shaking Stiles' legs.

Stiles steadied himself and raised his gun, aiming it at the shoulder of the creature's arm. He pulled back on the trigger, the bullet tearing through the twisted flesh and severing the creature's arm from its body.

Stiles winced as the painful sound of the creature's distorted scream filled his ears.

The creature pulled back from the door and Stiles shoved the door shut, grabbing a length of pipe from beside him and wedging it between the looped handles; jamming the door shut.

He scrambled to his feet.

"That's not going to hold long," he noted, watching as the steel pipe shuddered and buckled slightly every time the creatures threw themselves at the doors.

He heard the shrill screech of talon-like fingers being dragged across the metal as the creatures tried to claw their way through.

Stiles' legs moved beneath him as he staggered back down the hallway. He made his way down the long hallway that branched off into another, then another; a labyrinth of underground tunnels. Some of the branching pathways were caved in; blocked by piles of soil, crumbled bricks ans broken pipes. The walls around him were framed by large sheets of metal or smooth grey bricks, more modern than any other structure on the island.

He followed the walls that were lined with rusted pipes and flickering lights that buzzed with electricity.

He made his way into a large room, his hands gripping his gun as he crossed the room, stepping around the large pillars and over to the projector that sat on a small table in the centre of the room.

The machine rattled and flickered as the film fed through the reels, the small bulb projecting the image onto the smooth tiles of the far wall.

Stiles' heart leapt as he looked at the flickering grey and white image. A smile of wonder and amazement played across his lips as he looked at the image. "El Dorado."

The film zoomed in on the fine details of the gleaming statues, of the contoured metal that had been carved to look like a demon's face, with hollow eyes and fangs.

Stiles took a step forward, admiring the flickering image.

A figure lurched forward, Stiles' hear leaping as the camera zoomed out to see a soldier chained to one of the pillars in the room. He thrashed about, his eyes white and streams of foaming saliva dripping from his mouth. He looked rabid, his nails growing out like talons and his body straining against the chains.

“What the hell?” Stiles gasped, his heart slamming against his ribs.

He glanced down at the small table where the projector sat, his eyes drawn to the small black and white photograph and the aged parchment of a letter. Stiles picked up the photograph, looking down at the image. It was a photograph of a young man – a soldier – standing next to the legendary golden statue. At the foot of the statue was piles of gold coins and the slumped corpse of Sir Francis Drake.

Stiles glanced up at the flickering film, reading the name embroidered on lapel of the soldier’s uniform: Fischer. He looked down at the photograph in his hand, reading the embroidered lapel.

Fischer.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered.

He picked up the faded brown piece of paper and read the elegant to scrawls of writing.

“My end is near,” Stiles read. “The devils hunt for me in the darkness. The gold of El Dorado bears a terrible curse; the Spaniards have unleashed hell, and become as demons.”

Stiles looked up at the video, watching the grainy film flicker as the camera recorded the man thrash about in his chains.

Stiles looked back down at the letter and read, “My men have all been murdered, leaving the task to me alone. No ship will depart this island; I destroyed them all, and drowned the cursed city. A thing of such great evil must never leave these shores. In my final hour, I commend my soul to God. May He have mercy on this unholy place.” Stiles froze, his heart skipping a beat as he read the signature at the bottom of the letter. “Francis Drake.”

Stiles looked up at the projector, watching the man’s body twist and contort as he thrashed about.

The image dissolved to white as the reel of film ended.

“Oh God,” Stiles muttered. He reached over and turned the projector off, the old machine rattling as the film coiled around the reel, the end flapping about.

“Oh God,” Stiles muttered. He reached over and turned the projector off, the old machine rattling as the film coiled around the reel, the end flapping about.

The quiet of the room was disturbed by the inhuman sound of the cursed Spaniards, echoes of growling and hissing trailing into the room.

Stiles tightened his grip on his gun, his weapon raised and aimed at the entrance as he slowly backed away. He made his way over to the far wall, pushing it open and stepping into a large control room.

Stiles backed up into the room and pulled the door shut. He holstered his gun and grabbed the wheel, the metal groaning as it spun and the locks slid into place.

He stood still for a second, his eyes focused on the door as he listened to the trailing echoes of the inhuman sounds that echoed through the holes.

Stiles took a step back and made his way into the centre of the bunker.

The room mirrored the one he had left Derek in: the walls and floor were made out of metal panels and old grates that were stained with smears of orange and brown rust, fuse boxes and control panels screwed onto the walls and wiring and pipes that ran across the metal plates like a streaming river. Blue sparks rained from around the broken wires and old switches, flickering and lighting the shadows that lingered in the corners of the room.

The centre of the room was full of scattered wooden crates; clips of bullets sitting atop the discarded boxes.

A large memo board was screwed into the far wall, a few pieces of discoloured paper pinned against the cork; the printed ink faded, smeared and illegible.

The walls were lined with dirt-smeared bay windows. Below them, on the far wall, sat a large desk and a dusty control board.

Stiles collected a few clips of ammunition, checking them before pocketing them in one of the leather pouches on his belt.

He stepped over to one of the large windows and froze.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles gasped.

His heart skipped a beat, his stomach twisting and his breath catching in his throat as he looked across at the other control room.

Gerard stood in the window, several heavily armed mercenaries standing in ranks behind him.

One of the mercenaries had a hold of Derek, holding the man’s hands behind his back with one hand and the collar of his shirt with the other.

Derek snarled and thrashed about in the man’s arms, his expression livid as he glared at Argent.

Gerard – unperturbed – stepped over to the control panel and leant forward, flicking the switch that turned the microphone on and nonchalantly saying, "Ah, Stiles, I'm so glad you could join us. Can you hear me in there?"

"Loud and clear, jackass," Stiles snarled.

"Oh, no microphone on your end?" Argent said sarcastically, a mischievous smirk playing across his lips. "What a shame."

In a split second, Derek jerked himself free of the hold of one of the mercenaries. He stumbled forward and shouted, "Stiles! Get out of there before-"

Gerard grabbed the back of Derek's head slamming the man's face against the desk before pulling him back.

"Derek!" Stiles howled, instinctively taking a step forward. "Don't! Don't touch him!"

Argent slammed his fist into Derek's side, letting the man fall out of his grasp.

Derek collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping for air as he clutched his sides.

Stiles threw himself forward, thumping his fist against the glass as he shouted, "Leave him alone, you son of a-"

Stiles' words fell short as Argent drew his gun and pointed it at Derek. His heart sank into his gut. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as the room echoed with the unmistakable sound of the gun being cocked.

"Get up," Argent growled.

Derek reluctantly rose to his feet, clutching his side and glaring at Argent.

Two of the armed guards stepped forward, grabbing a hold of Derek's arms as Argent held him at gunpoint.

Gerard turned his attention back to the microphone.

"I'm sorry for the interruption," he said, his voice calm and level. "I just wanted to thank you for leading us to El Dorado."

He held up faded browned piece of paper with an old sketch of the monastery's buildings, and the vault which held the treasure.

"Of course," Stiles muttered sarcastically, his unwavering glare locked on Gerard.

"My son was right about you," Argent said. "You have such great potential, but you never take advantage of your talents. My son trained you well. It's such a shame you picked the wrong side." He glanced down and shook his head. He glanced at Derek and then back at Stiles before adding, "Oh, I hope you don't mind if we borrow Mister Hale for a little while longer, just to discourage you and your partner from trying anything creative. So long, Stiles. It's been fun."

Argent flipped off the microphone and stepped back from the switchboard. He gave orders to his men and the mercenaries turned and filtered out of the room.

Derek thrashed about in their arms, fighting against the mercenaries that dragged him out of the room. Beyond the glass, Stiles could hear the man’s shouts; full of anger and fear.

Argent stood still for a moment, his eyes fixed on Stiles. A wicked smirk twisted his face as he raised a hand and mockingly waved goodbye.

Stiles’ cold expression remained unwavering as he glared at the man and uttered, “Keep smiling, asshole. I'll see you soon.”

He watched as Gerard turned and followed his men out of the bunker.

Rage boiled in his blood, his jaw tense as his shoulders rose and fell with deep breaths. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white against the skin of his hands and his nails biting into his palms.

He let out a cry of frustration and slammed his fist against the window. There was a loud crack as radiating fissures spread across the smeared glass.

Stiles straightened his back, his glare full of rage as he glared across at the empty bunker.

“This ends now.”


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles raked his fingers through his hair, his shoulders heaving with deep breaths as anger flowed through his body.

The sound of men shouting drifted into the bunker.

Stiles turned around, instinctively reaching for his gun. He drew his gun from its holster and braced himself as the shouts grew louder, closer.

“That can’t be good,” Stiles muttered to himself.

He dove behind one of the crates just as the blast detonated and the steel door blew open.

“Shit,” he hissed, his ears ringing from the blast.

He peered over the crate and fired, taking out two men who charged into the room. He vaulted over the crate and sprinted towards the door.

A figure leapt out of the darkness, grabbing Stiles by the front of his shirt and throwing him against the wall.

Stiles grunted as his back collided with the solid metal plating. He slammed his fists into the underside of the man's wrists, breaking his hold, and shoved him back. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the mercenary's jaw, feeling the bone splinter beneath his blow.

The man stumbled backwards, stunned.

Stiles slammed his elbow into the man's throat, crushing he trachea.

The man clawed at his throat, wheezing and gasping for air as he collapsed to the ground.

Stiles stepped over the man's body and stormed out of the blasted doorway. He bound down the old stone staircase and rounded the dark corner, stepping out onto the concrete loading bay.

Large wooden crates were scattered cross the platform, draped in dusty sheets and crinkled tarps.

Cursed Spaniards clawed their way out of the old, rusted pipes, growling and snarling as they lunged forward and slashed at the men.

One mercenary rose from behind the shelter of a crate. He ignored the sound of his men's screams as he turned to face Stiles. He raised his gun and took aim at the man.

Stiles raised his pistol, ready to fire when a ghostly white figure threw themselves at the soldier. The creatures howled as its talon-like nails slashed through the man's armour, tearing open flesh and spilling blood against the concrete.

The man fell still and the Cursed Spaniard slowly turned its head, its eyeless face focusing on Stiles. It snarled at him, exposing its jagged teeth.

"Oh crap," Stiles muttered.

The creature charged at him.

Stiles fired, the loading bay resonating with the sound of gunshots and blood-curdling screams.

Stiles dodged to the side as the creature fell beside him. He vaulted over one of the crates and ducked beneath another, grabbing a handful of the small grenades that sat atop of the creaking wood.

He crouched slightly, glancing over the edge of the crate. He pulled the pin and threw the grenade, watching as it arched in the air and rattled across the concrete floor, lading among a cluster of mercenaries and creatures.

He ducked below the crate, bowing his head as the grenade erupted. The loading bay was lit but a raging orange glow as the explosion smothered the sounds of the creatures and the soldiers.

Stiles rose to his feet, his gun raised and his eyes trained on any movement.

The wooden crates were consumed by crackling fire, the smell of charred wood, gunpowder and burning flesh burnt his nostrils.

Stiles moved forward, running through the carnage. His heavy boots thumped the ground, the thundering beat matching his racing heart. His feet landed among rippling puddles of blood that pooled on the rough concrete. He ran across the small concrete bridge, skidding to a halt as a group of mercenaries blocked his way.

Stiles grabbed another one of the grenades with his free hand, biting onto the small metal ring and tearing it out. He hurled the grenade at their feet, watching as they scurried away.

He ducked behind one of the large cement pillars.

But nothing happened.

The grenade didn't detonate.

"Shit," Stiles hissed. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, listening as - one by one - the men came out of their shelter and moved towards him.

Stiles leant around the pillar aimed at the grenade. He pulled back on the trigger.

The bullet hit the grenade and it exploded.

The shock wave tore through him as Stiles hid behind the pillar, debris raining across the bridge.

Stiles glanced around the edge of the pillar, looking past the wavering flames that consumed the fractured wooden crates and the dusty sheets that covered them.

The bodies of the mercenaries lay scattered about the space, crumpled on the ground or cast back over the crates; unmoving, bloody and lifeless.

Stiles stepped out from behind his cover, crossing over the bridge and onto the far side of the concrete loading dock.

Beyond the flames, a creature crawled its way out of the shadows. It charged towards Stiles, growling and wailing.

Stiles stood his ground and raised his gun.

The cursed Spaniard stopped midway, its body jerking upright and its jaw falling slack as a weak rasp fell past its lips.

Stiles’ eyes fell to the jagged end of a broken piece of metal that penetrated the creature's chest.

Its limbs jerked as the killer tore the spear it free of his corpse and its body crumbled to the ground.

The towering mercenary that wielded the pipe trudged towards him, his grip tightened on the broken pole and his face set in a menacing snarl, his cold eyes locked on his next target: Stiles.

Stiles stood his ground. He holstered his gun and glanced down at the small rusted pole that clattered across the concrete platform and rolled to a stop at his feet.

"Argent said you were an elite," the man prompted.

"You do realise those things are going to be back any second, right?" Stiles asked, bending down to pick up the pole. He tightened his grip on the rusted iron bar, his eyes flicking back up to the man.

"Don't worry," the mercenary growled, a wicked smile twisting his face. "I'll make this quick."

The man lunged forward.

Stiles spun his spear around, smacking the side of the man's face with the side of the pole.

The man stumbled slightly by quickly recovered and countered Stiles’ attack, glowering at Stiles and charging at him. He swung his pole in a flurry of savage movements.

Stiles ducked from side to side, dodging the man's attacks. He dropped low and swung his foot around in a circle, knocking the mercenary's feet out from beneath him.

The man hit the ground with a painful thud bouncing back to his feet.

Stiles spun around, thumping the pole against the man’s wrist and disarming him.

The man cried out in pain as he stumbled backwards.

Stiles moved quickly, swinging the pole into the man's ribs - winding him - before choking up on the pole and swinging it into the man's jaw.

The mercenary toppled sideways, collapsing to the ground.

Stiles stepped around the man's unconscious body and made his way down the dock, the resonating sound of inhuman hissing and growling and the thundering echo of gunshots following him, growing louder. He kicked up his heels and ran over to the large crates that were stacked below a raised ledge, climbing up onto the boxes and pulling himself up onto the higher platform.

A blood-curdling shriek rang out through the loading dock.

Stiles spun around, his eyes falling upon pale figures of the cursed Spaniards that clawed their way onto the platforms of the loading dock.

Stiles stumbled backwards, adrenaline flooding his veins as he sprinted for the doorway.

He ran over to the large, iron ladder that was bolted to the wall, grabbing a hold of the lower rung and hauling himself up. The darkness broke away to the light of day and the sun beat down on him as Stiles climbed up out of the bunker.

He reached the top of the ladder, grabbing at the ring of smooth stones that lined the opening and dragged himself out of the darkness.

The ladder groaned beneath him, breaking away from the wall as he stumbled out of the bunkers.

He rose to his feet, drawing in a deep breath; the air around him smelt earthy and sweet: a taste of freedom.

The soles of his thick leather boots scuffed the dirt as his feet fell among the track of soft dirt and the blankets of lush green grass that surrounded the entrance to the bunkers. Large boulders and dark grey slate lined the steep, cavernous walls that surrounded him.

Thick brown vines hung down from the high ridges, coiled like thick rope. The roots of trees broke through the cracks in the rocks, spindly outgrowths that reached for the stream below. The towering trees arched over the cavern, the broad palm leaves tousled by the wind and casting flickering shadows that offered cool relief.

There was no sign of life among the lush greenery, except for the rusting red framework of an old crane that disturbed nature.

He trekked down the faded path that was carved between the trees, making his way back towards the monastery.

He pulled his walkie talkie from his belt and held down the button. "Erica? Are you there?"

There was no reply.

"Damn it," Stiles hissed. He pushed down the button again and - more firmly - said, "Erica, come in."

Erica's voice broke through the static. "Thank God. Stiles, where are you?"

"Heading your way," Stiles said, sliding down a small slope. He brushed aside a large leathery leaf of a low-growing palm, stepping out from the tree line and onto a small plateau that overlooked the old monastery. "Gerard's got Derek and he's going after El Dorado."

"Shit," Erica muttered.

"We've got to stop them," Stiles insisted.

"I've got a couple problems of my own right now," Erica replied. Beyond the sound of her voice, Stiles could hear the echo of gunfire. "The bastards have me pinned down outside the church."

"I'm on my way," Stiles said, dropping down from the ledge and sprinting through the old ruins. "Just hold on a little longer."

Stiles sprung over fallen pillars and sprinted up the sloping walkways, weaving his way through the rubble and ruins until he burst into the courtyard of the church. He sprinted across the tiled courtyard, up the small flights of stairs, and over to the old, twisted tree that sat in the centre of the courtyard.

A loud bang split the air and a bullet whizzed past Stiles' head.

He dove behind the twisted trunk of the tree, drawing his gun and cocking it. He glanced around the tree trunk, spying the man standing on the balcony; his gun pointed down at a figure crouched behind one of the carved marble posts that framed the stairways.

Stiles stepped out from behind the tree, raised his gun and fired.

The bullet tore through the man's head, his body jolting backwards before collapsing - limp and lifeless - over the edge of the railing.

Stiles lowered his gun and hurried over to Erica's side.

Bullets flew by as he ducked and rolled over to the banisters.

"You okay?" Stiles asked, looking at Erica with deep concern.

"Yeah," Erica replied. She opened her mouth to say something when a bullet hit the railing above her head, shattering the stone and raining rubble over her.

Erica ducked her head and shielded her face as the chunks of marble bounced off her shoulders.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed.

Stiles rose to his feet and fired, the bullet tearing through the mercenary's leg.

The man dropped to his knees, howling in pain.

Stiles fired again, the bullet lodging itself in the man's shoulder and knocking him back.

The mercenary slumped back against the door frame of the balcony, unconscious.

Stiles crouched down below their cover and reloaded his gun.

"Nice shot," Erica complimented.

"Argent's taking Derek to a sublevel below the church; the real vault," Stiles explained, his voice strained with panic. "We have to stop him. They don't know what they're dealing with."

"What do you mean?" Erica asked, ducking as another bullet struck the banister.

Erica rose to her feet and fired, taking out the soldier that charged across the courtyard.

"I don't know how, but that statue destroyed the whole colony," Stiles explained. "It killed the Germans too."

"Come again?" Erica prompted, blinking in confusion.

"I don't have time to explain," Stiles insisted. "We need to get to the church."

"Okay," Erica replied. "But how do plan on getting past them?" She nodded in the direction of the gunfire.

"Like this," Stiles said, pulling a grenade from the leather pouch on his belt. He bit into the metal ring and pulled it from the grenade before hurling it into the air.

They heard the grenade hit the ground, rattling across the uneven tiles.

Erica's eyes flew open wide. She ducked her head, pushing her back against the small stone wall and cupping her hands over her ears.

Stiles did the same.

The grenade detonated, the shock wave rolling through their bodies as the blazing heat of the erupting flames pricked their skins.

The explosion died away and Stiles and Erica lowered their hands away from their faces.

Stiles turned around, craning his neck to look over the edge of the small wall.

"Coast is clear," he whispered. "Let's go."

They rose to their feet and ran over to the church.

They pushed open the heavy mahogany doors and stepped inside the large room; the old stone floors lined with mahogany pews and ornate fixtures that were painted gold and covered in melted candlewax.

"There should be a hidden passage under the alter," Stiles said as he made his way down the aisle, passing the carved wooden pillars, shattered pews, and a large brass chandelier that had fallen from the ceiling years ago.

Erica followed.

They stepped up onto the raised alter, standing either end of a large stone table that sat on ornate, carved legs.

Stiles and Erica braced themselves against the table and pushed.

The stone slab ground against the floor as the table slid backwards to reveal a hole in the floor.

"Holy shit," Erica gasped as she looked down into the dark tunnel.

Stiles glanced over the edge, his gut twisting nauseatingly as he looked down at the scattered ivory bones of skeletons, the hollow black eyes staring back up at him as their jaws hung open with silenced screams.

Stiles swallowed hard.

"Come on," he said, lowering himself to the floor and swinging his legs over the opening. He jumped down into the tunnel, stirring up a cloud of dust as his feet hit the floor.

Erica reluctantly followed.

Stiles glanced down the hallway, following the sound of voices.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" Erica asked, her voice firm.

"Drake didn't want to get the treasure off the island," Stiles explained hastily. "He was trying to stop it from leaving."

Erica's brow furrowed with confusion. "What?"

"It-it's cursed, or something," Stiles answered.

"Oh, Stiles," Erica sighed. "For God's sake..."

"Erica, I'm serious," he called over his shoulder as he hurried down the twisting hallway. "I know it sounds crazy, but you've got to trust me. We can't let that thing leave the island."

"Whoa, hold up," Erica whispered, grabbing the sleeve of Stiles' jacket and slowing him as they approached the vault.

The cavernous walls rose high around them as they stepped out onto the small plateau that overlooked the floor of the vault. Curtains of lush green vines hung from the walls and the railings of higher levels, the greenery dotted with small, white budding flowers that glittered like gems in the presence of the enormous golden statue that sat in the middle of the room.

It was exquisite: the shimmering metal shaped to resemble a towering man with jagged teeth, protruding fangs, and two blood-red rubies that were fixed into statue to look like fierce eyes. Deep blue sapphires, glossy emeralds, pale jade and scintillating diamonds were all embedded in the gold to give the illusion of the man being draped in fine clothes.

Stiles and Erica took a step forward, looking at the armour-clad figures that moved about the vault floor.

Argent stood in front of the golden statue that sat in the middle of the room, holding onto Derek with one hand.

Derek's hands were bound behind his back with thin black cable ties that had dug into his skin and torn the flesh of his wrists open He shrugged off Argent's hand, thrashing about stubbornly as the guards tried to hold him still.

Stiles glance at Erica.

She nodded and drew her pistol from the small of her back.

They raised their guns and took aim at Argent and his men.

Stiles froze, feeling the barrel of a gun pushed against his back. He bit into his lip, jaw tense, as he and Erica reluctantly raised their hands in surrender.

"You two should realise by now that I plan for every contingency," Argent called, not turning to look at them. He drew his gun from the holster on his thigh and pressed it to Derek's temple. "Now," he said, his voice calm and level, "drop your weapons."

Erica hesitated, glancing at Stiles.

His heart skipped a beat as the echo of Gerard cocking his gun rang out through the cavernous vault.

"And no heroics, please," Gerard reiterated, "or I will kill him."

Stiles felt his rage boil through his blood as he weakened his grip on his gun and let it fall over the edge of the plateau, listening to it clatter against the tiles far below.

Erica did the same.

"Very good," Gerard said condescendingly. "Now, just hang in there a moment; we'll be right with you."

Argent lowered his gun away from Derek's temple and grabbed the man's arm, dragging him forward.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Gerard said, making a show of talking to Derek. "The craftsmanship, I've never seen anything like it before."

Derek glared at him, tight-jawed and unresponsive.

"But, it's only a shell," Gerard explained.

Derek's glare faltered, his brow furrowed with confusion.

A wicked smirk lifted the corners of Gerard's mouth as he added, "The real treasure of El Dorado lies inside."

He took a step back, dragging Derek with him. He glanced over at a mercenary who stood nearby with a crowbar.

"Open it up," he ordered.

The man stepped over to the golden statue, his grip tightened on the crowbar as he braced himself and wedged it into the gap on the side.

"Every legend has some truth to it. Isn't that right, Stiles?" Argent began to smugly monologue, glancing up at Stiles, who stood on the plateau, glaring down at the man. "You see, El Dorado was the most desired treasure in all the world, that much is true. But it was not desired becasue of the gold, but because of what lies _inside_ ; something beyond priceless."

There was a thundering bang as the lid of the casket broke open. The mercenary dropped the crowbar and pulled open the lid.

Inside sat a rotting corpse, the body smeared in dust and mummified grey flesh stretched thin across the ivory bones.

"Oh God," Erica gasped, turning her head away.

Stiles narrowed his eyes on the skeleton, his gut twisting with unease.

The body inside was twisted and contorted, their arms raised as if they had been clawing at the lid of the casket when they died. Shimmering golden cuffs were clamped around their wrists and talon-shaped golden fingers were wound around their neck. The face was twisted in agony, the mouth lying open as if they had died screaming.

The corpse's jaw fell slack, a cloud of dust falling from its mouth.

The mercenary gasped, inhaling the plume of dust. He clawed at his throat, coughing and wheezing as he staggered back slightly.

Gerard leant in closer to Derek.

"Watch," the man whispered, amused.

Derek's chest tightened, his eyes wide with fear as he watched the mercenary doubled over, coughing violently. His hand reached out for something to steady himself, collapsing against the lid of the statue and pushing it shut. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath as his flesh began to grow pail and his veins pulsed black beneath his skin.

"Help," the man wheezed between broken breaths. "Please..."

The man's head whipped around; eyes black, blood gushing from his nose, and foam dripping at the mouth. He let out an animalistic hiss, growling as he rose to his feet and threw himself at Argent.

Gerard lifted his gun and fired, the bullet tearing through the man's head.

The mercenary froze, the echo of the gunshot dying off as the man's body collapsed to the ground.

Derek turned his head away., blinking tears out of his eyes.

Gerard grabbed a fistful of Derek's hair, making the man cry out in pain as he forced Derek to look at the dead body.

" _That_ is the true treasure of El Dorado."

He turned to look at his men.

"Let's move it out!" he ordered.

The men began to scurry about, shouting orders back and forth.

A large net fell over the golden statue and a group of mercenaries scurried forward to secure it.

"Argent, you don't know what you're doing," Stiles objected. "That thing wiped out an entire colony."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Argent argued.

He turned his back on Stiles and ordered his men about, dragging Derek into the centre of the room.

He looked back at Stiles and Erica.

"You two are so pathetic You go scrambling around for your petty treasures. Do you have any idea what this-" He pointed at the dead mercenary on the ground. "-is worth, to the right buyer? Gold has a market value. Chemical warfare, however... The highest bidder wins."

Stiles heard the familiar rhythmic thump of a helicopter as it flew over, lowering a large metal hook into the centre of the vault. The mercenaries secured the netting around the statue and fastened the hook into place.

Far beyond the vault, the trailing echo of snarling reached them.

An icy chill ran up Stiles' spine as he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "Oh no..."

Derek spun around in Gerard's hold, his eyes wide with fear as he looked at Stiles.

"What the hell was that?" Erica asked, confused.

"The Spaniards," Stiles answered. He turned to look at Erica, his eyes wide with fear. "Erica, they never left."

There was a loud, blood-curdling screech from beyond the doorway, the gut-wrenching sounds of men crying out in pain silenced by the sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones and splurting blood. The hissing grew louder, closer.

They heard the eerie sound of animalistic growls from the railings above them, slowly lifting their eyes to see the deformed creature climb over the railing.

It threw itself forward and tackled a mercenary to the ground. It thrashed about, knocking the guard's weapon out of his hands and clamped its other hand around his throat. Its jagged talons dug into the flesh of his throat, strangling the man's startled cry.

Another mercenary raised his gun and fired at the creature. The bullets tore through the cursed Spaniard's twisted flesh, the creature's body flying backwards.

Another Spaniard jumped on the man with the gun, twisting its head around and sinking its jagged teeth into his throat.

Others began to climb out of the shadows and over the edges of the higher platforms, reaching out with their skinny, elongated limbs.

Erica and Stiles spun around, slamming their fists into the jaws of the men behind them and knocking them back. They grabbed the mercenaries' guns and wrestled them from their grasp, hurling the men over the edge of the plateau and down into the fight.

Stiles cocked the shotgun. "If that thing gets off the island-"

"There is no 'if'," Erica interrupted. "We can't let it leave the island. You go after Argent." She pulled back on the bolt of the rifle, sliding it back into place with a loud click. "I'll cover you from here. Go!"

Stiles spun around, leaping down from the small plateau. He sprinted across the room to the stairs that rose to the higher levels.

A creature lunged at him, throwing him back against the wall and snarling.

Stiles pulled back on the trigger, the shot blowing a hole through the cursed Spaniard's chest.

The creature fell away from him.

Stiles scrambled up the stairs, stumbling on the uneven stone and firing at any creatures that drew near.

"Hey!" a man shouted from the top of the staircase.

Stiles raised his gun, but before he could, a shot rang out through the vault and the man's body toppled sideways off the stairs.

Stiles glanced across the cavern at Erica, the barrel of her rifle aimed where the man had been.

He pulled the walkie talkie from his belt. "Dear God, I love you."

"Tell me about it later," she replied. "Your flight's leaving."

Stiles clipped his walkie talkie onto his belt and ran to the top of the stairs. He reached an archway that looked over the vault; the statue rising before him.

He threw the shotgun aside and leapt from the archway. He grabbed the netting, the rough canvas scratching at his palms as he struggled to find a grip. He dug his feet in, holding on as the statue rose from the vault.

He rose higher and higher until the ruins of the monastery fell away and the statue rose above the treetops.

Far below him, a mercenary turned his gaze to the rising statue, his eyes growing wide as he spotted Stiles.

"Oh shit," Stiles gasped. "That can't be good."

He looked upwards, seeing Argent pick up the walkie talkie.

The man's eyes flew open wide and his head whipped around, his eyes burning with rage as he looked down at Stiles. He spun around and shouted something to the mercenary in the seat behind his.

The man nodded and moved closer to the window, setting the butt of his AK-47 into the curve of his shoulder as he fired at Stiles.

"Crap," Stiles hissed as he ducked beneath the statue.

He glanced over the gleaming metal in time to see Derek shuffle back in his seat and slam the heel of his boot into the man's jaw; knocking him out of the helicopter.

The man screamed as he fell, stray bullets hitting the helicopter.

One bullet struck the pilot, spraying blood across the windscreen as the man's body slumped backwards.

Argent grabbed hold of the controls, struggling to fly the helicopter across the unsettled sheet of blue water and towards the large ship that sat in the bay.

Derek shuffled back in his seat again and kicked at Argent, his boot striking the man's shoulder.

The helicopter shook as Argent fought for control, crying out as Derek kicked him again.

Derek swung his leg, his boot slamming into Argent's face.

The helicopter spun out of control, plummeting from the sky.

Stiles let go of the netting, falling onto the stern of the ship.

He stumbled to his feet and ran forward.

The helicopter hit the bow, grinding to a stop.

Stiles' ears filled with the agonising shriek of the screeching metal

"Derek!" he shouted.

The air erupted with flames, the shock wave hurling him back.

His back struck something solid. He let out a weak grunt before collapsing to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliff hanger, I know. I'm sorry.
> 
> This story is one chapter off being finished and before I dedicate myself to writing one story or another, please let me know if you want a sequel to the Uncharted AU? Please, leave a comment, send me a message or an ask on Tumblr, and let me know if you would want a sequel or not.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles slowly blinked his eyes open. He lifted his head and looked around, watching through the blur of colours as flickering flames consumed the crates on the deck of the ship.

The bitter stench of smoke burnt at his nose, plumes of grey ash drifting across the breeze.

Stiles coughed, his chest aching as his body ached.

Drizzling rain fell around him, soaking his shirt and washing away the blood and dirt that was smeared across his exposed flesh. He ran his hand down his face, blinking past the blur of the falling rain.

"Derek," Stiles rasped, his arms trembling as he pushed himself upright. His feet pedalled beneath him. His boots scuffed the steel, sliding about as he struggled to find traction on the damp metal plating of the hull.

"Derek,” Stiles called, his voice a little louder this time.

He rose to his feet shakily, staggering forward. He slid down onto the lower deck, stumbling forward.

Stiles winced as his ears filled with a painful shrieking ringing sound. He blinked away the haze in his eyes and saw the man's body laying slumped out of the helicopter.

Stiles felt sick, his gut churning with guilt as his blood ran cold in his veins. He felt a wave of bile rise into his throat, burning him from the inside out as he stumbled forwards.

Derek's face was smeared with blood, streams of crimson running from the gash in his forehead.

Stiles stumbled closer.

“Derek!” Stiles called again, his ears ringing.

He took a step forward and froze as another figure dragged their way out of the helicopter with a shotgun in one hand.

"I’m getting tired of these games, Stiles!" Argent growled as he stalked forwards.

His weary, wrinkled face was marred with cuts and blotches of red, purple and yellow. A stream of blood ran from the gash under his eye and blood gushed from his nose and his torn lip from when Derek had kicked him in the face.

He stalked towards the railing of the helipad, livid.

"Kill him!" he bellowed.

The crewmen turned around, eyes focused on Stiles as they loaded their guns and took aim.

Stiles took a step forward, dropping off the higher level. The hull of the ship echoed with a thundering boom as Stiles' boots struck the metal.

He crouched down and picked up a piece of pipe that lay among the debris scattered on the deck. He tightened his grip on the pole as a group of mercenaries ran towards him.

Stiles adjusted his grip on the pole and spun it around, disarming the near figures before sweeping it under their ankles and knocking them to the ground.

They bounced back, leaping to their feet and lunging at Stiles.

He slammed the end of the poleinto their gut or smacked it over their heads, knocking them back. He planted his boot in one man’s gut, knocking him off balance just long enough to spin around with another kick and drop him to the floor.

He spun the pole around again, whacked it into the wrist of another man and knocking his gun out of his grip.

Stiles stepped towards him and whirled around, slamming his elbow into the man’s jaw with a loud crack.

He spun around in time to disarm an approaching figure.

Th mercenary stumbled slightly and Stiles braced himself and swung again.

The mercenary blocked it, planting his boot against Stiles’ stomach and shoving him backwards.

Stiles staggered back across the wet deck.

The mercenary sprinted forward and threw Stiles back against the wall and pinned him against the metal panelling.

Stiles let out a cry of pain as his back hit the metal. He gritted his teeth and glared at the man.

He pushed himself as far back against the wall as he could and slammed the heels of his boots into the man’s shins.

The man cried out in pain and doubled over.

Stiles grabbed the man and kneed him in the gut, pulled him up to his feet and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw.

The mercenary stumbled backwards, eyes wide with shock as he stared at the young man. The confusion faded away as rage took over. He spat out a gross mix of blood and saliva and charged at Stiles again.

Stiles caught the man's fist and swung his other hand into the man's jaw, feeling the bone crack beneath his knuckles.

The man fell backwards, hitting the deck with a solid thud. Blood spilt from his bloody lips, spreading like ink through water as it spilled into the puddles of water that pooled on the deck.

Stiles crouched down and picked up the shotgun that the man had been carrying, pulling the belt of pellets off of the mercenary's unconscious body and throwing it over his shoulder like a sash.

He loaded the gun and cocked it, sprinting across the deck.

The rain fell around him, the dark grey fabric of his shirt clinging to his body.

He made his way towards the front of the ship, weaving his way through the stacked crates draped in canvas sheets and netting, wooden boxes that were scattered across the deck and the towering metal containers.

Bullets rained around him, shattering wooden shards off of the wooden crates and ringing as they struck the metal containers.

Stiles slid across the deck and ducked behind one of the stacked crates. He glanced around the corner, watching as mercenaries with rifles and AK-47s began to stalk forward.

"Aw crap," Stiles whispered as he pushed his back against the crate.

He drew in a deep breath and readied himself.

He leapt out into the open and fired.

The shotgun blasted one of the mercenaries in the gut, his body hurled backwards and striking a metal container; sliding down to the deck and smearing the rusted blue paint with blood.

Stiles turned and fired again, taking out another mercenary before ducking behind one of the wooden crates to reload.

He cocked the gun and rose to his feet, firing.

He took out the guards, ducking behind the small wooden crates as he made his way across the deck.

There was a thundering boom as a barrel exploded, the erupting flames consuming the netting, straps and wooden crates that sat atop the nearby metal container.

The straps securing the stack of crates groaned as they strained to hold the crates in place.

"Shit," Stiles hissed.

He rolled out of the way, narrowly missing the mess of wooden boxes that toppled to the deck and shattered; scattering splintered wood and debris across the ship.

Stiles leapt to his feet and ran towards the ramp that led up to the helipad. The metal grating of the ramp rumbled like thunder beneath his boots as he sprinted up to the higher level.

He skidded to a halt, his heart skipping a beat as he looked at the unconscious body slumped over the edge of the helicopter's open door.

"Derek!" Stiles shouted.

Before he could take a step forward, Argent leapt out from behind cover and fired his gun.

The bullets hit a nearby barrel.

The barrel exploded.

Stiles was hurled back.

He struck something solid, crying out in pain as his gun was knocked from his grasp and his body collapsed against the deck.

He tried to move but couldn't, every inch of his body burning with agony.

He turned his head to the side, watching as his shotgun slid across the wet deck and fell off the side of the ship.

He laid still, staring up at the smoke-filled sky as embers drifted like stars across the orange-streaked clouds.

He felt the heat of the roaring fire prickle his skin, a searing pain crawling over his body.

“Come on, kid,” he heard Chris' voice above the ringing in his ears. “On your feet.”

Stiles let out a weak moan.

“So, you’re giving up?” the man asked. “I never thought you’d break.”

“No,” Stiles rasped, breathless.

“Hmm? What was that?” Chris prompted.

“I will never break,” Stiles growled through gritted teeth. He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the deck. He groaned as he rolled onto his side, determination spurring him on as he staggered to his feet and stood proud before Gerard.

The old man stood in the centre of the helipad, his shotgun in his grasp as he narrowed his glare on Stiles. The rain had washed the streaming blood off his face, but the large gash across his nose, the cuts in his lips and the wound beneath his eye were still visible.

He snarled as Stiles rose to face him.

"You don't give up, do you?" the man growled.

A mischievous smile lifted the corners of Stiles' mouth as he said, "Never."

Gerard cocked his shotgun and aimed it at Stiles.

Stiles dove to the side, rolling behind a wooden crate as Gerard fired.

The shot shook the crate, scattering slivers of splintered wood across the deck.

Stiles braced his shoulder against the crate, staying as low as he could as Gerard fired again and again.

The shotgun shells rained over the deck, the metal ends ringing as they hit the ground.

He heard Gerard pull back on the trigger, the gun clicking but not firing.

Gerard swore under his breath and pulled pellets from his belt.

Stiles took advantage of the distraction, leaping to his feet and sprinting across the deck to one of the closer crates. He ducked behind it, bowing his head as Gerard cocked the shotgun and fired.

He fired again and again until the gun was empty.

Stiles leapt to his feet, vaulted over the wooden crate and ran at Gerard. He slammed his fist into the man's jaw, knocking him back. He grabbed the shotgun and pulled Gerard towards him as he swung his leg around and slammed his boot into the man's gut.

Gerard doubled over, gasping for air.

Stiles wrenched the gun from the man's grasp and smacked the butt into the man's face.

There was the gut-wrenching sound of breaking bone as the metal butt collided with his nose.

Blood gushed down the man's face as he staggered backwards, howling in pain.

Stiles threw the gun aside, letting it slide across the deck.

Argent lunged forward and grabbed Stiles, headbutting him with brute force.

Stiles stumbled backwards.

Gerard swung his fist, his knuckles colliding with Stiles' jaw, knockin the young man aside. He slammed the sole of his boot into the small of Stiles' back, knocking him to the ground with a loud, painful thud.

The man turned and sprinted across the helipad, scurrying after his shotgun.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, his boots slipping on the wet deck. He sprinted at the man and swung his fist at the man's face. His knuckles collided with Gerard's cheek, tearing open the wound beneath his eye and knocking the man back.

Gerard staggered, his feet wheeling beneath him as blood streamed down his face.

Stiles swung his other fist upwards, slamming his knuckles into the man's jaw.

Gerard stumbled.

Stiles spun around, swinging the heel of his boot into the man's chest, winding him. He grabbed the man's shoulders and jerked his knee upwards, slamming it into Gerard's gut.

Argent stumbled backwards, gasping for air.

Stiles swung his fist again, hitting the man's face and knocking him to the ground.

Stiles staggered backwards, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths as he looked down at the old man's unmoving body.

Across the deck, the helicopter groaned as it rocked unsteadily on the edge of the ship.

Stiles spun around, his eyes falling on the wreck of the helicopter.

"Derek?" he called over the roaring flames that crackled and hissed in the rain. "Derek!"

He kicked up his heels and ran over to the crash, sliding to a halt as he looked down at Derek's blood-smeared face.

"Derek?" he gasped. "Oh God. Derek?!"

The man let out a weak groan, slowly blinking his eyes open.

Stiles let out a small sigh. He reached into the helicopter and hooked his arms under Derek's, dragging his body out of the buckled metal and shattered glass.

Derek kicked his legs free of the wreckage, falling weakly against Stiles as he tried to find his balance.

"Can you stand?" Stiles asked.

Derek nodded weakly.

Stiles let of of him for a second, crouching down to pull a small knife from the inside of his boot.

"Turn around," he instructed.

Derek did so, staggering slightly as he tried to find his balance.

Stiles slide the blade of the knife between Derek's wrists and tore through the cable ties, freeing Derek's hands. He shoved the knife back into the concealed sheath and turned Derek around to face him.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he cupped the man's face, the ball of his thumb stoking Derek's cheeks as he looked at him with fear and worry.

"I'm okay," Derek rasped, a soft smile playing across his lips. "I'm okay."

His eyes drifted over Stiles' shoulder, growing wide with fear. "Stiles!"

Stiles spun around.

Gerard staggered to his feet and cocked his shotgun.

Stiles' eyes fell on the coiled wire cable that was collected to the winch that held the statue.

"Watch out," he said, ushering Derek behind him as he turned around and threw his body against the helicopter.

It screeched across the metal platform, grinding to a halt as it wedged itself against the buckling metal railing.

"Come on," Stiles hissed as he shoved the helicopter again. "Come on, you son of a bitch!"

He threw his shoulder against the helicopter.

The buckled railing gave way and the helicopter plunged off the edge of the ship and into the water.

Stiles turned around to face Argent, holding his hand out and ushering Derek behind him as he said, "Adios, asshole."

Gerard's brow furrowed with confusion for a second before the wire pulled tight around his ankle and his foot was wrenched from beneath him.

He slid across the deck, clawing at the metal as the weight of the helicopter pulled him into the water. His cries were suffocated by the foaming waves that closed over him, his body dragged into the depths.

The statue of El Dorardo, thundered as it was pulled overboard, hitting the water with a thundering crash an eruption of foaming waves.

The ruby-red eyes caught the light of the setting sun, glowing red for a second before the treasure was dragged into the depths of the sea.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping as he drew in a deep breath.

The smell of the salty sea filled his nose; the rain reducing the flickering flames to cindering shards of broken wood.

Stiles ran a hand through his soaking wet hair, raking the tousled mess away from his face as he turned to look at Derek.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Derek nodded.

The quiet was disturbed by the rumble of a boat's engine.

Stiles and Derek spun around, looking across the undulating waves to where the small boat sailed towards them.

Stiles took a step closer, squinting as he looked at the driver.

Her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face, but there was no mistaking who it was.

Erica.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and waved to her. He turned back around and looked at Derek.

The man leant against the railing of the ship, his aventurine eyes overlooking the ocean.

The rippling sheet of clear water reflected the drifting clouds above.

The sky was streaked with a mix of orange, pink and purple as the sun began to sink below the horizon., the golden light playing across Derek's skin and lighting his eyes; leaving Stiles in awe.

Stiles stepped over to his side, leaning against the rail next to Derek.

"That..." Derek muttered. "That was one hell of a day."

Stiles couldn't help but laugh, the deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as a sweet smile played across his lips.

"It's a shame we're leaving empty handed though," Derek added.

The smile fell from Stiles' face. He straightened his back and dug into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the gold coin he had salvaged from the U-boat. He turned it over in his fingers and tossed it to Derek.

Derek caught it, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked down at the coin in his hands.

“It’s a Spanish gold coin,” Stiles explained. “Rare mint. It would worth two to two-hundred thousand dollars. It’s all yours," Stiles said.

Derek's eyes darted up to meet his, wide with shock as his lips trembled around unspoken words.

Stiles looked at him apologetically as he added, "I’m sorry you didn't get your story.”

Derek blinked away the haze and shook his head. "There'll be other stories. The less people know about this place and El Dorado, the better."

Stiles nodded in agreement.

"You still owe me one though," Derek teased.

"i'm good for it," Stiles promised.

"I, uh... I did manage to save one small thing though," Derek said, digging into his pocket and pulling out a small, inscribed silver ring that hung on a leather cord.

Sir Francis Drake's ring.

"I thought you might miss this," Derek said.

He took a step closer to Stiles and reached forward, looping his arms around Stiles' shoulders as he tied the necklace around Stiles' neck, letting the silver ring fall into place, resting against Stiles' collarbone.

Stiles ran his fingers across the familiar grooves, smiling as he whispered, "Thank you."

He looked up, meeting Derek's gaze.

His heart skipped a beat as he realised how close they were.

Derek cupped Stiles’ cheek, resting his forehead against Stiles' as if he were waiting for permission.

His warm breath rolled across Stiles’ lips, the sensation leaving Stiles' heart drumming against his ribs as he let his eyes fall shut and leant in closer.

"You two got a funny idea of romantic," Erica shouted, interrupting them as she pulled up alongside their ship.

Stiles and Derek broke away from each other.

Stiles looked over the edge of the railing.

"Wow," he gasped. "Erica, you look like hell."

Erica smirked, a thin trail of blood dripping from the cut in her lip as she rested her shotgun against her shoulder cockily. "You should see the other guys."

Stiles and Derek couldn't help but laugh.

"I got us a boat," Erica said proudly.

"Uh, we've already got a boat," Derek pointed out.

"Yeah, mine's bigger," Stiles teased.

Erica rolled her eyes. She stepped away from the controls and over to the tarp-covered cargo on the back of the boat.

"Mine's better," she said, pulling the tarp away from the pallet and revealing crates full of shimmering gold and glistening gems.

"Holy crap," Stiles and Derek gasped simultaneously.

Erica smiled and laughed. "I borrowed it off of a couple of pirates who were too dead to care. Now why don't you two get down here so we can get the hell out of here."

Stiles and Derek climbed over the railing, making their way down the ladder that was bolted onto the side of the hull and leaping onto the smaller boat.

Erica took her place at the controls and began to sail away.

Derek sat down on one of the seats next to Erica, resting against the wall of the small cabin.

Erica passed him a rag.

He wiped the blood off his face, gently dabbing at the bleeding wounds. He turned to look to where Stiles stood at the end of the boat.

Stiles watched as the island grew more and more distant, the golden light of the sun fading; immersing the island in shadows.

Derek rose to his feet and crossed over to Stiles' side.

"You know, you still owe me one," Derek told him.

Stiles smiled and bowed his head. "I told you I'm good for it. There'll always be another treasure, another adventure; another story."

"That's not what I meant," Derek whispered.

He turned to face Stiles, reaching out and gently cupped Stiles’ cheek. He brushed the ball of his thumb across the smooth skin as he leant in close, resting his head against Stiles'.

"You'd better hurry up and kiss me before Erica turns around," Stiles whispered.

Derek chuckled, a sweet smile playing across his lips as he leant in closer, closing the gap between them and bringing their lips together in a tender kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! The final chapter, complete! 
> 
> Hopefully you enjoyed it and thank you for reading! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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